Alice had strayed too long,
no tricks, no potions,
all the puns sprung.
Now, just growing up
on the wrong side of a small door,
trapped no matter what she did
on the wrong side of a great achievement.
Without literary skills, he was an obvious pariah,
half a million letters cloaking a single obsession.
Her life itself, forgotten before it was lived,
for the mirror was the thing.
It was little Mary Badcock (sic) whom Tenniel engrained,
but a Mrs Hargreves rapping at the door with bloody knuckles.
About her, the dried up fountains, the undergrowth,
the Tweedle twins long since dead from coronaries,
Red Queen moved to black,
baby pig eaten,
the flamingos punchy,
Humpty Dumpty absolutely in bits,
and the White Knight senile and far away,
living on horsemeat.
He once wrote home to his mother from school,
'O Mother, the nights, the nights.'
Alice Liddle. Born 1852,
biographied beyond human recognition 1865 and again, in 1871.
Died, peacefully, at the Breaches,