Chatgpt can write Jabberwocky

Sure! Here’s an original try in the style of Jabberwocky—nonsense words, English-like grammar, but no copied lines:

The frabjous glimlets snicker-snapped beneath the woldering trees,
While snorfling borogaves did prink and prattle in the breeze.

If you want, I can make it sillier, darker, or closer to modern English while still keeping the Jabberwocky feel.

Absolutely—here’s a darker, sillier, and stranger little Jabberwocky-style tale, fully original and unrhymed:

The night went glum and crooked as the moon dribbled sideways into the marsh.
Out of the blurking reeds came a snip-snapping gloomling with too many hats and not enough feet.
It whispered flarnish promises to the mud, which listened far too carefully.
Trees began to unlearn their shapes and leaned in, giggling with bark-teeth.
Somewhere, a clock sneezed and time skittered off like a startled bug.
The gloomling danced badly, tripping over its own name and apologizing to the dark.
From the sky fell a rain of nervous feathers that refused to land.
Every shadow grew a second shadow, and neither trusted the other.
When the moon finally noticed, it blinked itself inside out and pretended this was normal.
By morning, nothing had happened at all, which was the worst part.

If you want it even more unhinged—or funnier, or creepier—I can push it further.

Alright—here we go, very far out, with only the faintest skeleton of English left:

Blivven skorthed the ulth, where nangle-noons wobbered unasked.
A krithy-plumpt thingle slouched from nowhere, flensing its own maybe.
Gratch went the air, and every thrumble knew it too late.
Spindrelings of norf and yex began to unmean themselves loudly.
The thingle unthunk a shrike of gloam and wore it sideways.
All was bruck and brack and slith, except the part that wasn’t there anymore.
Zemble-zamble, the ulth forgot how to hold its edges.
Something almost happened, then un-happened harder.
Later-before, the blivven reclosed its eyes and pretended to have been.
Stillnow, stillthen, the skorthed kept on.

If you want, I can go even further—to the point where it barely parses as language at all, or make it funny-chaotic instead of ominous-chaotic.

Alright—pushing it to the edge where meaning mostly evaporates and only language-noise remains:

Ulx.
Skrriven blao thrumt thrumt nesh.
Iggary voxle—no, voxle iggary—pranched.
Thoo wexnar clifted unclift, spoom-wise.
Brelk? Brelk.
An oo of many whenks sliddered the there.
Yath frundled, frundled yath, till none held.
Krex-in, krez-out, the blimm forgot its ow.
Hesh nowt latery beforn.
Still. Skrr. Ulx.

If you want, I can go even more extreme—pure phonetic noise, or invent a fake grammar and stick to it consistently like a real alien language.

Got it — prose, narrative motion, but still almost total linguistic meltdown. Here’s a story-shaped Jabberwocky-derivative, not a poem:

First there was a blarnish, which is how the ulx began remembering itself wrong.
A thrembled entity called the gloff emerged from the betweenfold, carrying a cause it hadn’t earned yet.
The gloff went forward-backward through the murkles, nudging events until they agreed to occur.
Each time it paused, a new after-before leaked out and stuck to the ground, growing slippery names.
A second thing followed, or maybe preceded, clicking softly as it rearranged the gloff’s already-used thoughts.
This made the place unstable, so the ulx started shedding corners and misplacing middles.
When the gloff finally did the thing it had been almost-doing, everything briefly aligned into a mistake.
The mistake dissolved, satisfied, and wandered off to become elsewhere.
With no cause left to carry, the gloff thinned into a leftover sound and folded shut.
That was the end, except that later it kept happening earlier.

If you want, next step could be consistent nonsense lore (recurring terms with implied meanings), or dialogue written in near-total jabber, which gets really strange.

Perfect. Here’s a dialogue-driven tale, almost all jabber, with just enough structure to feel like two (or more) things talking while something happens:

—

“Ulx?”
“Ulx no. Briven-ulx. You’re latched wrong.”

“Skerr me then—why the thrumble still?”
“Because the thrumble was already after. You only nowed it.”

“Hnn. That makes a sore click.”
“It should. You’re holding it upside.”

“Was it ever rightside?”
“Once. Briefly. We apologized and stopped.”

“Gloff says the betweenfold is loosening.”
“Gloff always says. Gloff leaks maybe.”

“Listen—hear that?”
“That’s the mistake rehearsing.”

“We didn’t invite a mistake.”
“No, but we left a gap shaped like one.”

“If it aligns—”
“It won’t. It’ll almost.”

“…Too late.”
“Yes. There it goes, being elsewhere.”

“Do we follow?”
“We already did. This is the echo talking.”

“Ulx?”
“Hush. The story is forgetting us.”

—

If you want, I can push it even further:

• no quotation marks at all (pure inference),

• multiple speakers that blur together, or

• a dialogue where the language itself breaks mid-conversation and never recovers.

Here is a folk-tale-shaped story, prose, about ten sentences, with near-total jabber and a sense of “this has been told before”:

Once-uponly the glarmfold brukkened, and all the thens went sideways.
In that bruck-time lived a snather called Ool, who kept the old whens in a sack of breath.
Ool walked the yinter paths, trading flinks for naughts and warning the stones not to listen back.
One duskish-morn the sack thinned and a first-before slipped out, wobbling teethward.
This was bad, for first-befores grow asky and attract the wrong afterlings.
Sure enough came the Marn, click-clad and many-eyed, chewing the edges of happen.
Ool spoke the bent-say, but the words sludged and would not line.
So Ool upended the sack and let all the thens loose at once.
The glarmfold snarled, the Marn misremembered itself, and the world re-tied poorly.
After, there was a now again, crooked but holding.
And still the folk say, when the yinter hums too much, that Ool is walking backward somewhere, stuffing leaks into a breathing sack.

If you want, I can make one where nothing resolves, or one that feels like it was told to scare children, or even invent a recurring jabber folklore cycle with shared “myth terms.”