3d May 2020

Epilogue or Ode to Jabberwocky Translated

The sun dials haven’t worked for weeks, perhaps because of the oppressing gloom his threatened incarnation brings to all and sundry, or more likely by far due to the vast array of smoke belching from chimneys fed by the devilish brew of recently extracted shiny ebonite. My eyes oft would stray towards the stained glass windows rising majestic above my resting place, hoping perhaps for the warm golden light that would ignite my quest commencement. I listen to the irregular beat of the war drum, thumping, pumping, stomping, opening and closing in an endless dance macabre. What glue is this so strong to hold my back upon a simple shroud of no particularly heavy thread count. Does its essence ooze from the same very implausible desires that also urge my knightly errant?

I stumble up, not any easy task for mere mortal or green piglet and find the atmosphere at such an elevated height quite devoid of energizing atoms, obliging me to sag like some unfortunate laundry on continual extending line. Occasionally I hear the call of that most awful of creatures the cacophonous bantering mandible, slow of movement, rapid of judgement, likely to eat away your lower limbs with senseless but monetarily pertinent dramatic outpourings, appearing that moment as if magical ogres spawn, then vanishing, pouf, never to be seen or heard again.

Am I doomed forever to suffer marshal disillusion through this eternal interrupting caterwaul greeting my every intended heroic advance against that most hideous of beasts the Jabberwocky? Having gained my garish gorget and carefully cajoled my cuirass comfortably being so deftly defeated by the simplistic serenade of a glibly gabbling gossiper is enough to humble and harass my heavy helmeted head anew; which incidentally is exactly the blood curdling sound the sneezing ornithological miscreant produces persistently on each and every occurring occasion.

If pen is truly mightier that scimitar, then how much better to have a quill completely soaked in sanguine ink at one’s command. No fear of mouthy foe could then be real, no terror of the torso skewering verb, the pointed noun, or heavy armored adjective. Resting on the vibrating trunk of that great natural instrument, listening to its ever harmonious chord I am obliged to contemplate, to consider, to incise each thought with equal fortitude as would mine own martial wordiness be criticized and commented upon unmercilessly in future battling debate.

Overly exact preparation in argument is never an advantageous act; staid and repetitive vocabulary tend to facilitate counterpoint with great ease. I am inclined to grow somewhat petulant, distempered and discombobulated given adequate rehearsal, particularly whilst fully charged. Such a state was I when he approached me, eyes ablaze with incensed rage, stomping on the gloomy nightshade sprouting all around his terrible talon touting toes.

 From whence he sprang I cannot say, perhaps a brook or laurel grove. My mind was full of candy floss so chilling was that wordless hum. Un, dau; amhain, dha; ane, twa, the precepts flashed and sparked as they didst meet in verbal dual supreme. Phrase upon weight phrase, paragraphs loped by interjections, presumptions parried with exceptions, the interplay ran fast and hard as like the Oxford union floor. Finally, as hour grew late and hoarseness galloped near, with telling symmetry my verbose vine ascended and even abject remonstration succumbed to logic and well placed tendril growth.

My victory complete and with great aplomb I recovered sufficient from the dire and gory remains of the desperate confrontation to adequately reconstruct a précis representing the best features of my hallowed foe to be found. With my victor’s wreath held high, as would a Caesar crossing triumphant o’er the Rubicon, I danced a merry jig, much as an equine stretching forth in joyous stride, back to the waiting throng. 

As earnestly as the sun rays illuminate our darkest fears so did the radiance of my joyful grin light up my path. Welcomed, honored, salutations fell like ripened fruit from a shaken olive tree.

“A day to be remembered, cherished, replayed in adult tales and children’s nursery rhymes. Hurrah, hurray, let all linguistically combative men now celebrate.”

The Fisher King was excessively pleased and rested happily against his restraints singing.

“we can dance if we want to, we can leave your friends behind

Cause your friends don’t dance and if they don’t dance

Well they’re are no friends of mine

I say, we can go where we want to, a place where they will never find

And we can act like we come from out of this world

Leave the real one far behind,

And we can dance.”

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