Sonnet V
Shall we go find the man who slew the fiend?
Ventured deeper past the TumTum ago;
Against an ancient tree shade he did lean,
To reminisce along that fatal blow.
His vorpal sword gathered a sheath of rust,
And gyred-gimbled in the orchid field,
The boy-now-man has turned to churchèd lust.
Under his bed lies shattered, his old shield.
His beard is longer than the JubJub’s blast,
and withered ears no longer hear “callay!”
His eyes lack shine and daily chortle last.
How rather rath-like he’s chosen to stray.
To enter is to steal your final grave.
Better to fool a troll-bridge or a knave.