Alice Through the Logical Wormhole
Good evening, sir, my name is Alice.
A man of peculiar predilections,
Lewis Carroll, made me, not from malice.
Rather, more so, from his affections.
A pen name for a man, pedagogic,
Charles Dodgson was the given name
of this Oxford professor of sound logic.
To me, he's Lewis Carroll, just the same.
If my creator made another choice,
and threw me tumbling down another hole,
and hearing not a rabbit's nervous voice,
you'd see a wormhole swallow me whole.
To a wormhole of logical conundrums,
let us take a wild, but confusing trip.
Well, are you ready, hear the roll of drums?
Put your thinking cap on. I'll let 'er rip!
Poets are illogical and write of Luna.
Nobody who eats tuna also plays whist.
Illogical people also eat tuna.
My gist? Do poets who play whist, exist?
While you are considering that my friend,
I'll go to my place in that charming book,
where Mister Carroll ensured my life won't end.
If you want to see me, come take a look.
Copyright ©
David Crandall
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