For years and years they had lived pressed on those pages. And when I say flat, I mean just that—-2-dimensional. Now, you might expect a 2-dimensional life would be flat and boring. But not so for those two, well until just now. They were two brothers who looked exactly alike, spoken of many of times, even in reference number: Roud Folk Song Index number of nineteenthousanadeighthundred. They were the ten-thousandth flight of fancy that swirled in Lewis Caroll’s head. They have been etched in cartoon ink. They have become the title of a Singing Star’s opening song. So famous, so infamous! I’m sure in your nursery you must have heard the rhyme at least a hundred times:

Tweedledum and Tweedledee

Agreed to have a battle;

For Tweedledum said Tweedledee

Had spoiled his nice new rattle.

Just then flew down a monstrous crow,

As black as a tar-barrel;

Which frightened both the heroes so,

They quite forgot their quarrel.

So, that was just it. Being rotund in knee high tight fitting overall britches and itchy woolly socks, always looking at your brother and his ever twirling propeller beanie can make one go quite mad. I mean both meanings of mad—-irate and insane. Something changed, a ripple ruffled the universal wave. In an instant all of those stories were changed. Both brothers had had enough. They didn’t agree to have a battle, instead they fought disagreeingly. Something they had never done in all their flat lives—-in books, film, or song.

Tweedledum said Tweedledee had done him wrong by never leaving him alone. Tweedledee countered he was sick of it all, he wished his brother would take a great fall just like Humpty Dumpty. Tweedledum jabbed back and said his brother smelled like the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe. Tweedledee, aghast, fired back that Tweedledum was as mad as the Cow Who Jumped Over the Moon. The argument went on. Tweedledum took a deep cut and told his twin that The Queen of Hearts should have lopped off his head. Tweedledee raised his hands and softly touched his neck. The bile and gall began to rise from deep inside him and in a roar that echoed through all those pages, film cells and nurseries where there was at that moment the singing of rhymes—-a hissing echo seared the air: at least I don’t have Jabberwocky breath!

Their story had changed, no monstrous crow as black as a tar-barrel alighted on the ground in front of them. It remained high in the branches, shaking in dread. That last line had to be changed from “They quite forgot their quarrel” to “Tweedledum and Tweedledee in a hissy-fit-tantrum with two well-aimed bullets shot each other dead through the head”. In the Roud Folk Song Index number the nineteenthousandandeighthundreth song was expunged. In Mount Cemetery in Guildford, UK, L.C.’s skull cracked as that echo of the brothers swirled in that long empty space. Cartoons where they appeared paled in color, but one thing remained Bob Dylan kept singing his song. Maybe you’ve heard that one, outside of the nursery!

Dum-ditty-dee, I’ll kill thee! Dum and Dee are no longer among the flat 2-D living. There’s nothing left to tweedle here!