And the Monster a ghostly galleon, tossed upon restless seas.
A, My spying glass~
I know where you are. Scale-eyes are not blinded by sand, or dulled by grey, and I read that I profess that I do know exactly where you are.
In this missive I enclose: A return-posted Envelope with a curious address, a pair of magic, lace-up slippers, a pouch of crushed rosehips and a pearl which pours boiling watter, and a bracelet woven of the dyed strands of my mane, all of which are concerned with guiding you too me. For I am moving, I am caught in the cup of the sea, and I an prevented by the weight of the salt on my wings (not to mention my servitude to the ship, as they want for a mainmast!) from administering to you directly.
The directions are thus: put on the slippers. pour the water from the pearl into the pouch. Let it steep, during which time, remove the slippers and put on the bracelet. Sip the resultant tea slowly, braiding your hair into a thick plait, all the meantime. Remove your apron, put the slippers back on. Sip more tea. pick up a handful of sand, throw it in the other direction. Finish the tea. Polish the slippers with your apron. Take everything and crawl into the envelope I have provided. Seal the flap with your tounge and the tea. Yawn three times, and close your eyes. You shall have a dream of a city beneath the sea, of a smiling rock lobster and a snarling ghingham crab, and when you wake, why, when you wake...
Thou shalt be with me, my dolphin, my curious crustacean. Upon my ship, bound for England (as I am) with a missive of horror per my archest of enemies, that damn Walrus and that Bloodied Carpenter, who, I warn your pretty, pert ears, have been spreading the foullest lies about me at court. With my roaring, I sail to right them.
Come be my best of Alibis, my close-to-the-chest, my bound-to-the-hip. My tail twitches at the hope of curling about thee again.
Ever your Compass,
J. Wocky.
