The Baker's Tale - Bajka

They roused him with muffins—they roused him with ice—

They roused him with mustard and cress—

They roused him with jam and judicious advice—

They sent him conundrums to guess.

When at length he sat up and was able to speak,

A sad story he offered to tell;

And the Bellman cried Silence!

Not even a shriek!

And excitedly tingled his bell.

There was silence supreme!

Not a shriek, not a scream,

Scarcely even a howl or a groan,

As the man they called Ho!

told his story of woe

In an antediluvian tone.

You may seek it with thimbles—and seek it with care;

You may hunt it with forks and a hoe;

You may threaten its life with a railway-share;

You may charm it with smiles and soap—

But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day,

If your Snark be a Boojum!

For then

You will softly and suddenly vanish away,

And never be met with again!'

It is that, it is this that oppresses my soul,

When I think of my uncle’s last words:

And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl

Brimming over with quivering curds!

I engage with the Snark—each night after dark—

In a dreamy delirious fight:

I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes,

And I use it for striking a light

But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day,

In a moment (of this I am sure),

I shall softly and suddenly vanish away—

And the notion I cannot endure!