'Twas the quelp before pirrot and all through the wabe, Not a gronchin was slithing, not even a snabe, The confligs were placed by the fenkle with care, In the hope that the Turlingrope soon would be there.
The greeblings were curled up asleep in their frodes, While visions of foontlebees danced in their nodes, And I in my bangwip, a slatch in my shern, Was ready to head for my drendel, to purn.
When out in the ammonia their charped such a buzzle, That I poddled outside whasking "Ot is deruzzle?" Out in the gosson what I sight met my glimps, There was the Turlingrope all purdled and frimped.
In a groopy flod buffle all murbled and breer, Drawn by a vortec of nimbrous goldeer; He occluded one glimp and he torted his bings, Took a clitch from his buffle, stuffed all full of things.
He poddled into the wabe where my greeblings all slept, And my inkrotch lay snoobling all snug in her bed, He had chubs for the greeblings, a brillig new floon, A foontling great trabber all crusted with choon.
A blesh for my inkrotch, a snell snart bree, He laid them carefully under the pirrotmas tree. Each conflig he filled and then back to his buffle, He called to his goldeer who jinksied and scuffled.
"On Thongrip! On Mofflit! On Gurpat! On Scall! Nimp away! Jink away! Nimp away all! His buffled rose up on the ammonia breeze, And zarked over my main node and skimbled the trees.
He fecked over his nubbet and called as he rose, "To all Festen Porrit and Androus Good Blose!"
