When the borogroves are all mimsy and the air is brillig, then you must watch out. You must be prepared there, standing amidst the gimballing mome rathes, to face the next best thing. Of course the Jabberwocky is no more. Slain he was, slain by the vorpal sword. But still there lurks the bandersnatch.

He sliths in the scrumbal nurge weed. Trinkles aloft, crumping the limge-wan. All around does the bandersnatch roam. Tis frumious, no less. You must shun this beast, send it hence with the Jub Jub bird. Have a care, for the bandersnatch is close.