Alice in Verse: The Lost Rhymes of Wonderland (6 page)

     With posture most presuming.

‘The facts are clear as evidenced:

     The tarts were
clearly
taken—

And then returned, without a bite:

     On this, be not mistaken!

It’s true a crime here has been done,

     But
whom
here is the victim—

With tasty treats returned un-ate,

     As if he’d never nicked them?’

He paused to let this settle in,

Before applying final spin:

‘This trial is but a mockery

     Of justice and contrition—

If served with
tarts
but not with
tea

     To supplement nutrition!

If such it be—this travesty—

     This humble court’s position,

Then you, and me, and he, and she

     Be guilty of sedition!’

At this, the King of Hearts concurred—

     To rounds of boisterous cheering—

And so he brought the gavel down

     At once to halt the hearing.

As tea was poured and tarts were passed

     Around the courtroom freely,

Both Hare and Hatter raised their cups,

     And sipped away genteelly.

When cups were drained and plates were cleaned

     Of tea and tarts delicious—

When all consumed, the court resumed

     With matters most judicious:

‘We’ve heard the charge brought by the Hare

     Upon this crucial matter.

And now, before we hang this rogue,

     We’ll listen to the Hatter…’

‘Now the devil you know is the better on par

     Than the devil you don’t, strictly speaking—

For the devil you don’t is more devilish by far

     Than the devil whose sins you’re critiquing!

He’s a thief and a liar—of this we are sure—

     But he’s also quite handsome and strapping;

And although he’ll conspire, his motives are pure—

     And he looks like an
angel
whilst napping!

He’s a troublesome lad—though his manners aren’t bad—

     And it’s true that he stole from the Queen;

But his story’s complex and
remarkably
sad—

     And his
form
is quite lovely and lean!

He’s a mischievous rogue, with the mien of a prince,

     And the mane of a god—only
neater
—

With the sweetest of smiles and the deepest of dints—

     And the
rest
of him looks even
sweeter!

He is carefully groomed and
suspiciously
clean,

     With a hygiene beyond expectation:

You’d be hard-pressed to find a more unsoiled teen

     Who is riper for decapitation!

He’s a rascal, a bounder, a basher, a boy,

     And it’s true that he’s often confounding—

Yet he’s patently charming and blatantly coy,

     And the ladies all find him
astounding!

He has dark, dreamy eyes, and a lovely pale throat—

     Though, in truth, it is ripe for the stretching!

He will pillage your pies and then openly gloat—

     Still, the devil you know is
quite
fetching!

So bring on your verdict, your blade and your rope,

     And we’ll rally his swift execution—

If so
chilled
is your heart to the wiles of this mope,

     And the
swell
of this
grand
elocution!’

With the evidence laid, so the jury was bade

     To retire for a judicious huddle—

’Neath the cover of shade at the rose colonnade,

     There to sort out this dubious muddle—

But their premature run was cut short half-past-one

     By the verse of the March Hare’s rebuttal:

‘The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts

     Upon a summer’s morning:

The Knave of Hearts, he came along,

     And
stole
them without warning!

There’s little more or less to say—

     
Unless
he pleads
suborning
;

If not, then round his lovely neck

     A noose shall be adorning!

I’m sure my colleague would agree,’

The Hare concluded cheekily.

The Hatter merely sipped his tea,

Then smashed the cup quite suddenly.

‘And
if
, by
that
, you do imply

     This
brute
that I’m defending

Was so
inclined
to thievery

     Upon
another’s
wending,

You may do well to
reassess

     The
message
that you’re sending—

For
three
can swing as well as
one
,

     With verdicts yet
impending!
’

At this, the Hare demurred at length,

     Until the point was sinking—

To depths untravelled, deep within,

     Where warning signs were blinking.

‘I pray the court forgive my most

     Erroneous rebuttal—

I hence defer to my consort

     Whose mind is less a muddle.

The act of this malicious brute

Was his alone, without dispute!’

With rebut laid to rest by rebuke sharply stressed,

     And the gavel at once interceding—

With the loopholes addressed, and the jurors abreast

     Of all evidence, fair and misleading—

With the sun in the west, at the good King’s behest,

     There was time for yet one final pleading…

The Knave was gathered to the fore,

     Still shackled, wrist and ankle,

And forced upon the witness floor,

     As feathers took to rankle—

The jurors being mostly fowl

Would often flap their wings and yowl.

The Knave stood tall and handsomely

     Upon the witness planking,

And waited, rather patiently,

     Until they’d quelled their cranking—

A careful lad, and most polite,

So carefully he did recite:

‘How doth the shade of midnight bleed

     
The moonlight that it teases,

Yet stanch the flow of every ray

     
That ultimately pleases.

How casually it mitigates

     
All feelings of compunction;

How thoroughly it permeates

     
At each and every junction.

How darkly spreads its chilly grasp

     
About the night to seize us,

And whispers through the highest boughs

     
With
scornful
little breezes.

How swiftly does it still the flows

     
Along the running rivers,

And wilt the budding garden rose

     
That tenuously quivers.

How gently doth the ruling hand

     
Embrace the lovely flower,

And so insure its swift remand

     
Into her ivory tower.

How doth she prize the sweet perfume,

     
With mercy most judicious,

When there it blooms, within her rooms,

     
To serve her as she wishes!’

A silence fell about the court,

     And echoed round the garden,

As none there offered up retort

     To circumvent the pardon—

None there at all, except the King,

     Whose regal voice at once did ring:

‘A touching verse!’ the King declared.

     ‘A moving recitation!

But should the lad be thusly spared,

     And offered vindication?

I cannot rule, for all I’ve seen—

And so it falls unto the Queen…’