Oh frabjous play!

Of water-clocks and printing-press, Oh Muses shriek your song! Of Walruses and Carpenters and what's the French for gong? The forty-seventh root of eight is difficult to smell, particularly (if like me) you've lost your nose as well. "And hast thou spain the Jelly-Knock? Come to my arms, my custard-cream? Oh frabjous play! Calloon! Belay (that order, Mr Dream!)" "I have large writing," spoke the Text, in incarnated letters; but Rory Bremner went insane and worshippéd his betters. 'Twas brilliant, but the tovey slimes did gibber gibber gibber wabe, all gibber were the gibber gibber

{End of the double-page spread}

WHY DID I WRITE THAT??

Pericles' Funeral Oration

My hat it has twelve fishes, Twelve yawnos has my song, And had it not twelve fishes, It would be rather long. But have I written yet enough To drive all readers sane? Or mad? Or green? Or curling-tongs? Do tell me, where's my brain? As Basil Fawlty once remarked, "I've only got one face" — well, actually, as you can tell, it was just a negative space. "To be or not to be", That is (dear friends) a quotation; and now we will upstanding be for Pericles' Funeral Oration. The scholars know not what it means or whether it means any—thing; they could have gone to Crossroads with a major hit for Benny. And so I write more rubbish down, not knowing where I'm going, And so I write more hsibbur up, not going where I'm knowing. I wonder if you've ever learnt to count to five hundred and five? I know I haven't, but then again, I'm dead whilst still alive.

Tom Lehrer scansion

My garden holds a thousand wells, my snail has died of maggots, I flew to Amsterdam tonight and lost a piece of baggage. Does baggage rhyme with cabbage? I don't think I would dare to be so bold and risk it here, instead beware his swirling hair! Once upon John Kettley's mum, A fish-hook I did spot, it felt like several plates of knives, A-smothered deep in snot. Oh childish childish sense of hu—mour and Tom Lehrer scansion; beware his hair, his mouldy stare, Industrial Expansion! Shall I compare thee to a gnat that flies straight up one's nose? I'd rather I didn't, thank you, good riddance! Does this make much sense? Who knows? "Many of these are bad for the hell, except for the literary few. Discuss. Disgust." So spake John Sta—pleton who was made of glue. I'm starting to gibber now (it's rather alarm—ing, I'm sure you'll without doubt agree) they're coming to take me to the new funny farm that they've built on the minor North Sea.

His flashing hair!

In Xanadu did Newton John a horrid shrieking scream declare, where Popacatepetl hid his foaming eyes, his flashing hair! His foaming hair, his mad baboon! His semi-puzzled goat! His grebing grobbled gark-nailed grunk! His badly creaking throat! Unto the world did Kubla Khan the latest football scores read out, where Alf the Garnet (racist git) was left alone to shout: "Innit marvlous? Innit great? Innit bloody naff?" He screamed and yelled, he oozed and smelled, and licked away the chaff. 'Twas in a rotten punt they met, All dribbling blue and gooey, the boat collapsed, they (sunken) lapsed into the Cherwell (pooy). My love is like a red red rope, It's used for making nooses, I tied it to my horse-drawn head, And now push up the roses. Er, daisies — that is what I meant, Oh dear! Intentionalist! Beware, beware his sliming hair, especially when he's pissed. He staggers round from door to door enquiring of their health, their clothes, their shoes, their toothpaste tubes, but least of all their wealth.

Gibberwocky

{Here begins a double-page spread of solid text}

Once upon a kettledrum, a little man called Moke was startled by an earing fish who pigged them in a poke; the idiom meant little, much or somewhere in between, to this poor yak from Wormington, whose hair was painted green. Beware the Gibberwock, my son! The jaws that moan, the screaming gap! Beware the Textext-bird and shun the frumious Book-o'-crap! One, two; two, one! And fiddledy-dum! His vorpal hair went snickety-crump; he left it read, and with its bed, he went a-twiddly bump. 'Twas bilgey and the slimy texts did gyre and grumble in the quag; all grungy were the Borodins, and the mauve clothes outslog. "Mine's a Moppo!" "What's your poison?" (startled) came the words, but Carry On was carried off, and locked away with noise on. My rhymes are getting worse and worse, there's still no end in sight, although this biro's running out, except it's not — all right?

Jack and Jill

TEXT ^{gibber garble words blah}

Text free zone

[This will not (therefore) have been a text.]

There is no such thing as a zero-focalised walrus. "Where's the walrus?"

    There once was a fragile theory
    Whose proponents made one quite weary
    They cried "It's a project"
    But really, with respect
    It just makes all of us rather bleary.

Jack and Jill went up (and by that I mean ascended) the hill, mountain, slope, valley, gorge, walrus. Their purpose [or τέλος, applying the criteria of a non-contextual-ethical-political-infraacademical term] in so comporting themselves (coup d'état) was to seek, get, acquire, obtain (say) a bucket, vessel, container of water, fluid liquid, bananas. Jack slipped — perhaps forced, though I am unwilling to use this word, by a repressive police force — and fell (coup de grace) into the well, um, er, mmm. Then (at this particular moment in the spatio-temporal continuum) Jill followed him to his untimely death, fate, τέλος.

εν μεν γαρ τωι τέλέι η αρχή μοι.