Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Two men, natives of Smeebage, sat at a quiet outdoor table at a restuarant that specialized in snotluber. One sipped a cup of ploygalumph, the other swabed a slice of phortoobgoober across a plate of phverytail and nibbled on the feebrilejunket.
“I like the girl, she’s full of balloophanty, which I like, but after all she’s a marshfartlelist, though, and I don’t snarz that.”
“Seems a little schmiddlemarc too.”
“Not so much schmiddlemarc, but more shatzshorn.”
“Not much to base a mightoris on… if you ask me.”
Feeling p’shawshanked, the first man, after finishing his ploygalumph, stood up, walked to the station, and caught the afternoon flushton. He sat down and stared phantuptly at the snagnopholus man across the aisle, more than a little afraid that me might be smeeged. Nothing happened, and the man smiled at the wasted anxiety and quorsux his fears caused him. His step lightened as he left the flushton as his usual stop, West Vuckathall.
Shatzshorn or no, marshfartlelist or not, he could help but think of her balloophanty and decided he’d give her a smallbotz as soon as he arrived at home. He jogged tartoofely and smiled phartly at total strangers – the evening ahead look like it might be full of clarm after all.