Another Game of Croquet
by Gabi Soleimanipour
‘twas brillig and the
no
no slithy toves will be mentioned here, thank you
very much. we don’t go in
for such stuff and nonsense
anymore, not since little alice
got all grown up and started dreaming about
tax returns
company dinners
luxury handbags instead of
mirrors and songs and chess pieces
‘twas brillig and
‘twas nothing, and nothing, not since
little alice stopped playing games in
the garden and started playing them
in the bedroom instead.
there will be no more croquet,
no tea parties or turtle soup for you
and me
‘twas brillig-
‘twas not, and for goodness sakes, that word
isn’t even in the books, mister webster
never said anything about
“brillig” or anything else you might care
to name, for that matter.
and don’t go singing to me, because
after all, you’re hardly
the dormouse - she died, long ago
and left them all alone, that madman
and his hats and that hare
and his tea.
sometimes i wonder
what might have happened to them
‘twas-
still you persist.
off with your head, i might say, if it
still gave me any pleasure.
off with your head, but nobody listens
to me anymore, nobody cares for the ramblings
of an old monarch who cannot even play
a decent game
of croquet.
silence from you now;
what, not even a word
of protest?
i can still have you executed,
you know, if you refuse to speak to me.
tell me a story, if you will, or recite me
a rhyme, you might even sing a song or two
if you so wish. you might think this strange but
you do remind me so of that dear
little dormouse, so afraid she was, and so
tired.
im so tired.
tell me a story.
‘twas brillig and the slithy toves.
yes, there’s a good story
do tell it and then perhaps we might try
for another game
of croquet
by Gabi Soleimanipour
‘twas brillig and the
no
no slithy toves will be mentioned here, thank you
very much. we don’t go in
for such stuff and nonsense
anymore, not since little alice
got all grown up and started dreaming about
tax returns
company dinners
luxury handbags instead of
mirrors and songs and chess pieces
‘twas brillig and
‘twas nothing, and nothing, not since
little alice stopped playing games in
the garden and started playing them
in the bedroom instead.
there will be no more croquet,
no tea parties or turtle soup for you
and me
‘twas brillig-
‘twas not, and for goodness sakes, that word
isn’t even in the books, mister webster
never said anything about
“brillig” or anything else you might care
to name, for that matter.
and don’t go singing to me, because
after all, you’re hardly
the dormouse - she died, long ago
and left them all alone, that madman
and his hats and that hare
and his tea.
sometimes i wonder
what might have happened to them
‘twas-
still you persist.
off with your head, i might say, if it
still gave me any pleasure.
off with your head, but nobody listens
to me anymore, nobody cares for the ramblings
of an old monarch who cannot even play
a decent game
of croquet.
silence from you now;
what, not even a word
of protest?
i can still have you executed,
you know, if you refuse to speak to me.
tell me a story, if you will, or recite me
a rhyme, you might even sing a song or two
if you so wish. you might think this strange but
you do remind me so of that dear
little dormouse, so afraid she was, and so
tired.
im so tired.
tell me a story.
‘twas brillig and the slithy toves.
yes, there’s a good story
do tell it and then perhaps we might try
for another game
of croquet