by J. T. Holden
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…’
THE TEA PARTY RESUMES
‘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?’
‘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:
A SLIGHT DETOUR THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS
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 win
e—
With the treacle and ink that is pleasant to drink,
So be welcomed here ninety times nine!
DEE & DUM
‘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 WALRUS & THE CARPENTER HEAD BACK
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.
‘Dear Oysters, come and rally round!’
The Walrus did beseech.
‘It seems we’ve dipped into a rut
Along this brackish beach:
It would be grand to lend hand—
If four would give to each.’
The eldest Oyster gazed at him,
And raised a clever brow.
The eldest Oyster nodded then,
For this he did allow:
To lend a hand, it would be grand—
But which to whom and how?
‘A coil of thread,’ the eldest said,
‘Is what we do require
To hoist them up and drag them out
From ’neath this boggy mire—
Some kindling, too, and flint as well,
To build a warming fire.’
‘But not too hot!’ the Walrus cried,
As flames licked at his feet—
And yet the pyre burned high and bright,
And ever-so replete—
Whilst wafting scents into the night
Of sweetest sizzling meat.
‘The time has come,’ the Oysters cried,
‘To settle down to tea—
To break the bread and thickly spread
The lard with zesty brie!’
‘A little spice, that would be nice,’
The eldest did agree.
‘It was so very kind of you
To grace us with this feast!’
But no reply the Walrus gave,
Which scorned them not the least—
For full his maw and thick his craw
With vinegar and yeast.
‘It’s seems a shame,’ the Builder sobbed,
‘To bring this feast to shut.’
To which the eldest did agree,
And none there could rebut—
And so they stoked the waning fire
To satisfy their glut.
‘O Carpenter, we weep for you!
Dear Walrus, we lament
The boiling sea—and cabbages—
Those kings of malcontent—
The shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
And all that they ferment.’
‘A pleasant run, you both have had—
The sights that you have seen!
But now we must be trotting home,’
They sighed, with sated mien—
And this was scarcely odd, because
They’d licked their plates quite clean.
THE BATTLE
‘Now we’re done with our tale, and we must have a fight:
We don’t care if it lasts very long!
And though each of us feels inexorably right,
We’re not certain the other is wrong!’
‘Now I’ve got a headache—it’s terribly grim—
But the battle cannot be postponed!’
‘And I’ve got a toothache—I’m far worse than him—
But a rematch cannot be condoned!’
‘We shall fight until six, and then dine until dawn,
And then sleep until midday or one!
Then we’ll take up the battle—if but for the rattle—
And cut down the trees, every one!’
‘Now I generally hit everything I can see—
Or at least what I see when excited!’
‘And I hit all things within reach of my sword—
Whether seeing or as yet unsighted!’
‘Let the battle commence! Raise your sword, if you’ve one—
And, if not, simply raise your umbrella!
But we must begin quickly! The sky’s growing dark!
And by night we recite a cappella!’
‘Are you leaving so soon? We have yet to begin!
If you go now, you’ll miss all the action!
If you must, then be off to the court of the Queen—
There you’ll find a most pleasant distraction!’
‘They have games in the
garden, and tarts served with tea—
Though their manners are often quite coarse!’
‘They have trials, tribulations, and all sorts of glee—
Though they seldom show any remorse!’
‘So join them at once on the rose garden green,
But be mindful of what we have said—
For the game that you win is a loss to the Queen,
And a loss thus will cost you your head!’
IN THE GARDEN OF HEARTS
Now come to the place at the edge of the wood,
Where the roses are lovely—yet white —
Where the Five and the Two and the Seven of Spades
Have been frantically painting all night.
Come take your flamingo and hammer the hog
Through the wickets of cards on the green—
But be mindful to send it straight into the bog
Lest you challenge the wrath of the Queen!
Now look to the skies where the Cat’s clever eyes
Doth alight to the fright of the ring—
And the utter disdain of the monarchs who reign:
That a cat may dare look at a King!
Come walk with the Duchess: she’s done with her fit,
And her manner is oddly serene;
She will give you the moral to every last wit
That has ever endeavored or been.
Now follow the Gryphon, and hear the sad tale
Of the Mock Turtle’s school in the sea—
Where the Lobster Quadrille, if you won’t or you will,
Is the thrill of the court’s coterie!
Come play for the day, but don’t stay through the night,
For the light in the night is quite thin.
Now onto the site where the sun’s shining bright,
And the trial is about to begin!
THE TRIAL BEGINS
The King proclaimed the trial to start
Upon the stroke of one clock,
And so, in turn, did rap his gavel
On the varnished sound block.
‘We first shall hear the evidence—
And then commence the hanging!’
To quell ensuing cheers and jeers,
His gavel took to banging.
As silence fell, the King deferred
To counsel for the hoodlum;
And once again there rose a din
That soon broke out in bedlam.
The gavel fell to crush the swell,
And bring the court to order.
With regal voice, the charge was read
At once by the reporter:
‘The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts,
