The Glugs of Gosh – Part 11
The enchanting poem about the Glugs who live in Gosh, a land of adventures and magic.
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It chanced one day, in the middle of May,
There came to the great King Splosh
A policeman, who said, while scratching his head,
“There isn’t a stone in Gosh
To throw at a dog; for the crafty Og,
Last Saturday week, at one,
Took our last blue-metal, in order to settle
A bill for a toy pop-gun.”
Said the King, jokingly,
“Why, how provokingly
Weird; but we have the gun.”
And the King said, “Well, we are stony-broke.”
But the Queen could not see it was much of a joke.
And she said, “If the metal is all used up,
Pray what of the costume I want for the Cup?
It all seems so dreadfully simple to me.
The stones? Why, import them from over the sea.”
But a Glug stood up with a mole on his chin,
And said, with a most diabolical grin,
“Your Majesties, down in the country of Podge,
A spy has discovered a very ‘cute dodge.
And the Ogs are determined to wage a war
On Gosh, next Friday, at half-past four.”
Then the Glugs all cried, in a terrible fright,
“How did our grandfathers manage a fight?”
Then the Knight, Sir Stodge, he opened his Book,
And he read, “Some very large stones they took,
And flung at the foe, with exceeding force;
Which was very effective, tho’ rude, of course.”
And lo, with sorrowful wails and moans,
The Glugs cried, “Where, Oh, where are the stones?”
And some rushed North, and a few ran West;
Seeking the substitutes seeming best.
And they gathered the pillows and cushions and rugs
From the homes of the rich and middle-class Glugs.
And a hasty message they managed to send
Craving the loan of some bricks from a friend.
On the Friday, exactly at half-past four,
Came the Ogs with triumphant glee.
And the first of their stones hit poor Mister Ghones,
The captain of industry.
Then a pebble of Podge took the Knight, Sir Stodge,
In the curve of his convex vest.
He gurgled “Un-Gluggish!” His heart growing sluggish,
He solemnly sank to rest.
Yet, he was sent to rest.
And the King said, “Ouch!” And the Queen said, “Oo!
My bee-ootiful drawing-room! What shall I do?”
But the warlike Ogs, they hurled great rocks
Thro’ the works of the wonderful eight-day clocks
They had sold to the Glugs but a month before–
Which was very absurd; but, of course, ’twas war.
And the Glugs cried, “What would our grandfathers do
If they hadn’t the stones that they one time threw?”
But the Knight, Sir Stodge, and his mystic Book
Oblivious slept in a grave-yard nook.
Then a Glug stood out with a pot in his hand,
As the King was bewailing the fate of his land,
And he said, “If these Ogs you desire to retard,
Then hit them quite frequent with anything hard.”
So the Glugs seized anvils, and editors’ chairs,
And smote the Ogs with them unawares;
And bottles of pickles, and clocks they threw,
And books of poems, and gherkins, and glue,
Which they’d bought with the stones–as, of course, you know–
From the Ogs but a couple of months ago.
Which was simply inane, when you reason it o’er;
And uneconomic, but then, it was war.
When they’d fought for a night and the most of a day,
The Ogs threw the last of their metal away.
Then they went back to Podge, well content with their fun,
And, with much satisfaction, declared they had won.
And the King of the Glugs gazed around on his land,
And saw nothing but stones strewn on every hand:
Great stones in the palace, and stones in the street,
And stones on the house-tops and under the feet.
And he said, with a desperate look on his face,
“There is nothing so ghastly as stones out of place.
And, no doubt, this Og scheme was a very smart dodge.
But whom does it profit–my people, or Podge?”
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