Some years ago, my brain—unbidden—committed an act of literary vandalism and produced the following. Apologies to… everybody.

Whan that Aprille with his slithy toves
The droghte of March hath perced to the borogoves,
And bathed every veyne in the wabe
Of which vertú doth the mome raths outgrabe;
Whan Jabberwock eek with his swete breeth
Bites and catch in every holt and heeth
The tendre Jubjub, and the yonge sonne
Hath the Bandersnatch his halfe cours y-ronne,
And manxome foe maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght by the Tumtum tree,
So priketh hem the foe in hir corages,
Thanne longen folk to frumious pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken uffish strondes,
To Jabberwock, kowthe in burbly londes;
And specially, from every tulgey wood
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they stood,
The hooly martir to seke—Callooh! Callay!,
That hem hath holpen on that frabjous day