Morty needed a better press agent. That stupid poem kept appearing in reprint after reprint, no matter how many letters he submitted to editors, or his frequent pleading with his solicitors for a cease-and-desist order.
“I’ve never whiffled or burbled in my life. For damn sure there aren’t any beamish boys toting my head anywhere, with or without flaming eye sockets. How is a jabberwocky supposed to clear his tulgey woods of the snicker-snack of vorpal swords?”
“Ludicrous,” replied Claude, “As silly as creating your own adjectives. ‘Frumious,’ my frabjous arse. We should’ve sued the pants off that guy clear back in the nineteenth century.” The Bandersnatch popped a cold one for the Jubjub bird.
“Could be worse, how large a behind would you need to make a proper galumph?” Ernie was philosophical about the whole thing. “At least you’re maxome, Morty.”
“O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” Morty replied sardonically. He sharpened his teeth on a nearby Tumtum tree, but his heart wasn’t in it.
“Whatever happened to that Carroll kid, anyway?”
“I heard he got himself gimbled by a hunting Snark.”
Claude mimsied considerably at that thought and cried, “Brew me,” slything his claws to snatch.