Alice in Verse: The Lost Rhymes of Wonderland (3 page)

With comportment in question and hands folded so,

She commenced with recital of maritime woe—

With a tone most peculiar, which only grew worse

With the trembling release of each subsequent verse:

‘How doth the looming middle-night

     
Continue with its breathing—

To overlay what underlies,

     
And propagate such seething!

How skillfully they navigate,

     
How steadily they row

About the sea in search of things

     
So many miles below.

How deeply plunge the divers here

     
Into the blackest waters—

To slay the creature whilst she sleeps

     
Beside her sons and daughters.

How boldly they perform their task,

     
How silent then the wake,

As creatures small begin to stir,

     
With hungers yet to slake.

How frenzied doth the waters flail

     
To complement such seething—

How
deafening
those foundlings wail,

     
When first they take to teething!’

The Caterpillar closed his eyes,

     And raised his pointed nose—

In cool contempt or careful thought,

     Or simply in repose,

One couldn’t say with certainty:

     One
really
never knows.

He tapped his fingers pensively,

     Whilst lavish rings of smoke

Did permeate about his perch

     To form a shielding cloak—

And when the haze was quite replete,

     The Caterpillar spoke:

‘How lovely flows your melody,

     How
sweet
your coarse refrain—

How perfectly you galvanise

     The
perfectly
mundane.

How practical your poetry,

     How timely every cue—

How clearly you infuse it with

     A
clearly
slanted view.

How smooth your flow of syllables,

     How
deft
your cutting wit—

How flawlessly you intertwine

     Each
flawed
and tepid bit.

How sweetly blunt your countenance,

     How picturesque your idyll—

However
, you should
never
slouch

     When offering recital!’

As silence fell about the wood,

     The trees began to sway—

And when the smoke dispersed at last

     (At much to her dismay)

The Caterpillar spread his wings,

     And on them flew away.

‘Come straight to the kitchen; don’t knock at the door,

     For the footman who sits on the stoop

Will be caught in the crossfire of dishes galore,

     As the fight rages over the soup!

Don’t mind all the pepper, and please hold your sneezes—

     You’ll only awaken the baby

That the Duchess is rocking, as
rough
as she pleases,

     Whilst dodging the boat and the gravy!

How she cradles her child with an unyielding mitt,

     As she muddles her way through the rhyme—

How she tosses it up and then violently shakes it

     To punctuate every last line!

Come hunker down here by the hearth where it’s safe

     From the shower of saucepans and plates—

Come sit for a while near the cat with the smile,

     As the mayhem above culminates!

Now the Duchess and Cook are
indelibly
linked,

     Yet between them there’s little remorse—

And suffice it to say that it’s
only
by day

     They engage in such
heated
discourse.

At six the Cook leaves, and the poor Duchess grieves

     All those innocents recently weaned—

For the Cook serves by night a most
monstrous
delight

     At the court of the King and the Queen!

Now the Duchess, it’s true, often dines at the court,

     Though she
seldom
consumes half her weight—

For well-plied with the port, she can still hear the snort

     Of the child she has cradled of late.

But it’s not all as gruesome as one might opine—

     For the crux is quite simple indeed:

Though it’s true the meat’s royal upon which they dine,

     None are
Royals
upon which they feed!

Though the meat is quite tasty and goes well with wine

     (And with afters of treacle and figs)

I assure you the “children” upon which they dine

     Are but
only
the King’s royal pigs!

’Tis the Cook’s wicked wit, and the consequent fit

     Of the Duchess, that drives this old story—

’Tis a conflict of old that has seldom been told

     Of the fate of their shared porcine quarry!’

As the cat stretched his paws to reveal his fine claws,

     So the rest of him started to fade—

And what little remained was the grin that he feigned,

     As he spoke of the beast in the wabe.

‘For directions,’ he said, ‘do be careful to tread

     Far away from the wabe in the wood:

You will find it more pleasant right here in the present—

     If not, then you probably should!

If you really must go, then it’s best you should know

     That to
find
you need only to
seek
—

But in seeking and finding, you may need reminding:

     Once found, is what’s sought worth a peek?

For
this
way, the Hatter: for
that
way, the Hare—

     Both are mad and exceedingly queer!

More likely than not you will find them together—

     Now, excuse me, whilst I disappear…’

‘No room!’ cried the Hatter. ‘No Room!’ cried the Hare.

‘Please join us at once! There is
no
room to spare!’

With the Mouse resting soundly, they offered a chair,

And at once, rather roundly, did Hatter declare:

‘If to say what you mean is to mean what you say,

     Then to mean what you say, just repeat it—

Though you might just as well say
I see what I eat

     Is the same as
I see thus I eat it!
’

‘Or,’ the Hare added smartly, ‘
I get what I like

     Is the same as
I like what I’m getting!

Or to
breathe when you sleep
is to
sleep when you breathe!

     Or to
set something up
is
upsetting!
’

In his slumber, the Dormouse concurred with them both—

     Though, in truth, he was most likely dreaming

Of a tray filled with tarts and a deck full of Hearts

     Taking flight at Her Majesty’s screaming.

‘Clean cup!’ cried the Hatter. ‘Clean cup!’ cried the Hare.

‘Clean cups all around now! We’ve
no
cups to spare!’

With the mouse on the doily, they shifted their chairs,

And at once, rather coyly, did Hatter declare:

‘If a story is sad at the end, is it bad

     To conclude with a happy beginning?

If apart from the start, it will tug at the heart,

     Should one start at the part that’s most winning?’