The Glugs of Gosh | Page 8

wide land is there not one sage?With a cool, clear brain, who'll straight engage
To sweep the Swanks from Gosh?"?But the Lord High Stodge, from where he stood,?Cried, "Barley! . . . Guard your livelihood!"
And, quick as light, the teeming Swanks,
The scheming Swanks touched wood.?Sages, plainly, labour vainly
When the Swanks touch wood.
The stealthy cats that grace the mats
Before the doors of Gosh,?Smile wide with scorn each sunny morn;
And, as they take their wash,?A sly grimace o'erspreads each face
As the Swank struts forth to court.?But every Glug casts down his eyes,?And mutters, "Ain't 'is 'at a size!
For such a sight our gods we thank.?Sir Stodge, the Swank! The noble Swank!"?But the West wind tweaks his nose in sport;
And the Swank struts into court.
Then roared the King with a rage intense,
"Oh, who can cope with their magic tricks?"?But the Lord High Swank skipped nimbly hence,?And hid him safe behind the fence
Of Regulation VI.?And under Section Four Eight 0
The Swanks, the Swanks, dim forms of Swanks,
The swarms of Swanks lay low--?These most tenacious, perspicacious,
Spacious Swanks lay low.
Cried the King of Gosh, "They shall not escape!
Am I set at naught by a crazed buffoon?"?But in fifty fathoms of thin red tape?The Lord Swank swaddled his portly shape,
Like a large, insane cocoon.?Then round and round and round and round.
The Swanks, the Swanks, the whirling Swanks,
The twirling Swanks they wound--?The swathed and swaddled, molly-coddled
Swanks inanely wound.
Each insect thing that comes in Spring
To gladden this sad earth,?It flits and whirls and pipes and skirls,
It chirps in mocking mirth?A merry song the whole day long
To see the Swank abroad.?But every Glug, whoe'er he be,?Salutes, with grave humility
And deference to noble rank,?The Swank, the Swank, the swollen Swank;?But the South wind blows his clothes awry,
And flings dust in his eye.
So trouble stayed in the land of Gosh;
And the futile Glugs could only gape,?While the Lord High Swank still ruled King Splosh?With laws of blither and rules of bosh,
From out his lair of tape.?And in cocoons that mocked the Glug
The Swanks, the Swanks, the under-Swanks,
The dunder Swanks lay snug.?These most politic, parasitic,
Critic Swanks lay snug.
Then mourn with me for a luckless land,
Oh, weep with me for the slaves of tape!?Where the Lord High Swank still held command,?And wrote new rules in a fair round hand,
And the Glugs saw no escape;?Where tape entwined all Gluggish things,
And the Swank, the Swank, the grievous Swank,
The devious Swank pulled strings--?The perspicacious, contumacious
Swank held all the strings.
The blooms that grow, and, in a row,
Peep o'er each garden fence,?They nod and smile to note his style
Of ponderous pretence;?Each roving bee has fits of glee
When the Swank goes by that way.?But every Glug, he makes his bow,?And says, "Just watch him! Watch him now!
He must have thousands in the bank!?The Swank! The Swank! The holy Swank!"?But the wild winds snatch his kerchief out,
And buffet him about.
VIII. THE SEER
Somewhere or other, 'tis doubtful where,?In the archives of Gosh 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