The Jabberwock

A dull throbbing in the back of your head,

It wakes you up and puts you to bed,

It makes wine go red and the pines shed,

All do quiver before it’s stead, 

All-encompassing, none immune, 

The only way to heal a wound,

It will snuff out the sun and moon,

In the end, you’ll hear it croon;

“Don’t you wish you had more of me?

 Don’t you wish that you had done more?

Don’t you wish that more could be done?

Don’t you wish that what you had done was worth more?

Don’t you think that facing me like this is a bore?”

So use it wisely now, don’t furrow your brow,

For this world is a stage, so it’s best to smile when you take a bow.