Follow in Lewis Carroll's footsteps...
In firmin, though the shunkles were,
Some virdid moosks were hid and blurred,
Betwixt the sun and bloparett herd,
Of jlopped's bloody, matted furs.
Did once and twice the shungle swing,
Like a dream that was dreamt by the omple thing,
A match, unmade in the squorrel grib,
True was the flowers attempt to live.
So he cut and he snipped in the garden night,
Possessing the vigor of crungles knife,
Like a emptoir bladderpat, of shnoobles bay,
He laid the red rose, down to lay.
And there in shnoobles bay for life,
Did live the Rose of Jlopped's heart,
The decaying ash of his forlorn wife,
Since the day she dared depart.