Alice in Verse: The Lost Rhymes of Wonderland (4 page)

‘Or,’ the Hare interjected, ‘conclude at the part

     Where the tea is most
gleefully
flowing?

Could a story as such ever mean quite as much

     As another not nearly worth knowing?’

In his slumber, the Dormouse began to recite:

     
‘You must
steal
them all—every last one!

We shall divvy them fairly and savour each bite!

     
To the garden now! Off with you! Run!’

‘Such tales!’ cried the Hatter. ‘Such
lies!
’ cried the Hare.

‘Such stories as such one should
be
loathe to share!’

With the mouse still reciting, so did they repair

To seats more inviting, and left the mouse there.

‘If the truth’s in the telling,’ said Hatter, ‘beware—

     For the telling of truth’s overrated!

And no matter the lies, ’tis a far better guise

     For the one who appears
less
than sated!’

‘It is true,’ the Hare added, ‘but lest we forget:

     One should
always
create a diversion—

And the one so inclined to the taste
less
refined

     Is so
easily
led to subversion!’

In his slumber the Dormouse concurred once again,

     But before he could take up recital—

They plied him with tea, and a thick wedge of brie,

     Which sufficed just as nice as a bridle.

‘More tea!’ cried the Hatter. ‘More tea!’ cried the Hare.

‘More tea, though you’ve had
less
than
more
of your share!’

With his eyes shining brightly, his posture foursquare,

And his lips curling spritely, did Hatter declare:

‘We’ll begin at the end and conclude at the start,

     For the start is the best place to end it,

Like the filling you suck with a straw from a tart—

     If you haven’t, we
do
recommend it!’

‘For a tart not to start with the
fine
treacle paste

     Is a waste of the space that’s inside it:

For the tart that is chaste is a
terrible
waste—

     And one never knows
how
to divide it!’

‘Here here!’ cried the Hatter. ‘There there!’ cried the Hare.

‘We’ve arrived at the end now! We’ve
no
time to spare!’

With the mouse in the teapot—and one empty chair—

Came the final recital of Hatter and Hare:

Through the deep tulgey wood, past the long-standing wabe,

     Where the Bandersnatch bellows and preys;

From the egg on the wall—and his subsequent fall—

     To a messenger’s poignant malaise.

From a King’s sheer delight at his Queen’s rapid flight

     (And a bread that’s
suspiciously
brown)

To a bold Crimson Knight and his counterpart White,

     And a battle of beasts for the crown.

At the top of the hill, past the garden of buds,

     Where the flowers recite, one and all—

Cross the checkerboard field, with its squares red and white,

     To the checkerboard floor of the hall.

Now come to the feast where the mutton’s not least

     To be sliced or be served of the three—

With a pudding so chatty, and fish rather natty,

     Be welcomed here thirty times three!

With cats in the coffee and mice in the tea,

     With buttons and bran in the wine—

With the treacle and ink that is pleasant to drink,

     So be welcomed here ninety times nine!

‘Shall we tell you a tale that you’ve not heard before?

If you have, then please stop us—if not, cry for more!

But if
less
you require from the coffers of yore,

Then perhaps you should travel to some other shore!

But don’t run—not just yet—for you cannot ignore

That you haven’t a clue what the wood holds in store:

All those dark little nooks that you bypassed before

Still await your impending and final encore!

It’s safer back here from the things that you fear!

Like the raven, the rook—or the crow, if you please,

With his dark feathered wings that expand with such ease;

With his talons so sharp and his brilliant black beak

In contrariwise pose with the sound of his shriek.

From those things that you fear, it is
much
safer here!

Now we’ve settled the battle, and evened the score,

And divided the rattle in parts numb’ring four.

If you like, we can whittle them down furthermore:

Ten shillings, six pence—but not one penny more!

So the tale we regale with shall be evermore

But a fable of vengeance that
some
may deplore,

Whilst others, most wicked of heart, may adore:

The return of the two who once dined on the shore…’

The moon was shining on the sea,

     So to eclipse the sun:

She did her very best to make

     The billows roughly run—

And this was odd, because, of course,

     The day had just begun.

The sun was sulking in the gloom

     That swallowed up his light,

And set the skies he’d painted blue

     In shades of blackest night—

‘It’s very rude of her,’ he cried,

     ‘To do this out of spite!’

The sands were dry as dry could be,

     The sea was wet as wet.

The air was foul and dank and thick

     With bittersweet regret—

The sort that weighs the heavy heart,

     And labours to forget.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

     Were heading back the way

They’d come from but an hour past,

     When night was plainly day—

Before the clouds had settled in,

     And filled the skies with grey.

‘I did not think it quite so dark

     When first we headed out!

Do you suppose,’ the Walrus said,

     ‘They’ve rearranged this route?’

‘No question,’ said the Carpenter,

     His heart yet filled with doubt.

‘O come, my friend, let’s rest a while,’

     The Walrus did implore.

‘A little break to still the wake

     Along this briny shore:

We
cannot
take another step

     Beyond another four!’

The weary Builder gave a sigh,

     But not a word he said:

Into the dark he trudged along,

     Determined now for bed—

His belly thick with peppered swag,

     And vinegar and bread.

But slower still their footsteps fell

     Into the sinking sand,

Which rose—and swiftly—to their knees

     In striking countermand—

Whilst from the frothy breaking waves

     
They
came now, hand-in-hand.

Four dozen Oysters followed fast,

     And yet four
hundred
more;

And thick and quick, their bodies slick,

     They gathered on the shore—

All circling round and closing in,

     More eager than before.