Oh brillig was the slithy tove,
All mum with crap that he had sold-
So on he went, as we are told
A goal in mind, a windy road
A nematode, but I digress
Our subject still a wilderness,
Wherein such souls as look askance
At superficial happenstance,
To waddle in the cosmic dance
And ask the question, should the chance
Present itself, or even not-
For questions ask their own true selves
Forgiving answers to themselves.
And truth be told I need more rhymes
Not once not twice but three more times!