The Glugs of Gosh | Page 9

is a
volume rare,
A precious old classic that nobody reads,
And nobody asks for, and
nobody heeds;
Which makes it a classic, and famed thro' the land,

As well-informed persons will quite understand.
'Tis a ponderous work, and 'tis written in prose,
For some mystical
reason that nobody knows;
And it tells in a style that is terse and correct
Of the rule of the
Swanks and its baneful effect
On the commerce of Gosh, on its
morals and trade;
And it quotes a grave prophecy somebody made.
And this is the prophecy, written right bold
On a parchment all
tattered and yellow and old;
So old and so tattered that nobody knows
How far into foretime its
origin goes.
But this is the writing that set Glugs agog
When 'twas
called to their minds by the Mayor of Quog:
When Gosh groaneth bastlie thro Greed and bys plannes
Ye rimer
shall mende ye who mendes pottes and pans.
Now, the Mayor of Quog, a small suburb of Gosh,
Was intensely
annoyed at the act of King Splosh
In asking the Mayor of Piphel to tea
With himself and the Queen on a
Thursday at three;
When the King must have known that the sorriest
dog,
If a native of Piphel, was hated in Quog.
An act without precedent! Quog was ignored!
The Mayor and

Council and Charity Board,
They met and considered this insult to Quog;
And they said, " 'Tis the
work of the treacherous Og!
'Tis plain the Og influence threatens the
Throne;
And the Swanks are all crazed with this trading in stone."
Said the Mayor of Quog: "This has long been foretold
In a prophecy
penned by the Seer of old.
We must search, if we'd banish the curse of our time,
For a mender of
pots who's a maker of rhyme.
'Tis to him we must look when our luck
goes amiss.
But, Oh, where in all Gosh is a Glug such as this?"
Then the Mayor and Council and Charity Board
O'er the archival
prophecy zealously pored,
With a pursing of lips and a shaking of heads,
With a searching and
prying for possible threads
That would lead to discover this versatile
Glug
Who modelled a rhyme while he mended a mug.
With a pursing of lips and a shaking of heads,
They gave up the task
and went home to their beds,
Where each lay awake while he tortured his brain
For a key to the
riddle, but ever in vain . . .
Then, lo, at the Mayor's front door in the
morn
A tinker called out, and a Movement was born.
"Kettles and pans! Kettles and pans!
Oh, the stars are the gods'; but
the earth, it is man's.
But a fool is the man who has wants without end,
While the tinker's
content with a kettle to mend.
For a tinker owns naught but the earth,
which is man's.
Then, bring out your kettles! Ho, kettles and pans!"
From the mayoral bed with unmayoral cries
The magistrate sprang
ere he'd opened his eyes.

"Hold him!" he yelled, as he bounced on the floor.
"Oh, who is this
tinker that rhymes at my door?
Go get me the name and the title of
him 1"
They answered. "Be calm, sir. 'Tis no one but Sym.
'Tis Sym, the mad tinker, the son of old Joi,
Who ran from his home
when a bit of a boy.
He went for a tramp, tho' 'tis common belief,
When folk were not
looking he went for a thief;
Then went for a tinker, and rhymes as he
goes.
Some say he's crazy, but nobody knows."
'Twas thus it began, the exalting of Sym,
And the mad Gluggish
struggle that raged around him.
For the good Mayor seized him, and clothed him in silk,
And fed him
on pumpkins and pasteurised milk,
And praised him in public, and
coupled his name
With Gosh's vague prophet of archival fame.
The Press interviewed him a great many times,
And printed his
portrait, and published his rhymes;
Till the King and Sir Stodge and the Swanks grew afraid
Of his fame
'mid the Glugs and the trouble it made.
For, wherever Sym went in
the city of Gosh,
There were cheers for the tinker, and hoots for King
Splosh.
His goings and comings were watched for and cheered;
And a crowd
quickly gathered where'er he appeared.
All the folk flocked around him and shouted his praise;
For the Glugs
followed fashion, and Sym was a craze.
They sued him for words,
which they greeted with cheers,
For the way with a Glug is to tickle
his ears.
"0, speak to us, Tinker! Your wisdom we crave!"
They'd cry when
they saw him; then Sym would look grave,

And remark, with an air, "'Tis a very fine day."
"Now ain't he a
marvel?" they'd shout. "Hip, Hooray!"
"To live," would Sym answer,
"To live is to feel!"
"And ain't he a poet?" a fat Glug would squeal.
Sym had a quaint fancy in phrase and in text;
When he'd fed them
with one they would howl for the next.
Thus he'd