The calimasts of Triahod,
they hidden lie, to make me sob.
The trothellshells that crackle so,
when killing I defeat my foes.
Oh faugath treal, the purshed tooth,
with poison bites but not forsooth.
And lying groth upon the throsh,
my darled body becoming slosh.
The plunging knife that scinds my blood.
Hidden about the garlish mud.
Beware the Jabberwock my boy! [img]smilies/wink.gif[/img]
A pathetic copy of a classic, I hope Carroll would forgive me. The object is to discover the subject of the poem. There is only one real clue I can give, and that may or may not be necessary. We shall see.
Iarwain
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"And what are oaths but words we say to God?"
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