Woe to that rock in the rough
Wavering in the waves
Battered and dazed
Enduring the briny tide.

What drives it there?
To stand in the deep?
What keeps it from falling apart?
The will to endure
A hardened core
And even a silvery heart.

From such silvery veins
Verged the vorpal blade
That jabbed the Jabberwock
It fell to its knees
Writhligging in pain
But then it wished to talk.

“This man would be boy
Were it not for this day
Were it not for that rattered rock.
Now watch my dear lad
The men of this world
Of the men who walk alone.
Now hear my dear lad
Of the heroes of yore
Who stand as that sun-scorched stone.”

“Dead matter and dead memories
Decay in their minds
There hearts are touched by pain.
Unsung are the stories
Of the few of their kind
Of their own Jabberwocks
That they strove to slay.”

“Ready to rise…Are you my dear lad?
To become such a man?
To heft up you heart
To raise your right hand
And change all the land?”

Then Jabberwock died.
And the man stepped back
He marveled at his attack.
He marveled at the mineral
The stuff of men;
At the ore in his veins and that
Thing that most men lack.

Traptured was he
Yet something was odd.
He didn’t feel any fear.
Jabberwock gone
Being sent to God
The man had slain his fear.

With the power he found
With his fate unbound
He grappled with his thoughts.

He could not be too brittle.
He could not be too hard,
Like marble or shale or glass.
They hail from dark abodes;
The dark of men who snapped under their charge
And the dark that men most loathe.

Unsung as could be
The silver-lined man
The hero of vorpal ore
Took to the sea
And roamed the land
To hand help out once more.
Like the heathen heroes of yore.

Hail to that man of the mere
Who sent himself to the swells
As to aid all people well.

To speak of a stuff
Ere it was lost. Of those
Virile vorpal veins that
Make men what they are.
Hail to that hero of silvery ore.
Hail to that rattered rock in the rough!