The Glugs of Gosh Part 4

But when they fell on seasons bad, Oh, then the Sw.a.n.ks, the bustled Sw.a.n.ks, The hustled Sw.a.n.ks went mad-- The minute-writing, nation-blighting, Skiting Sw.a.n.ks went mad.

The tall trees sway like boys at play, And mock him when he grieves, As one by one, in laughing fun, They pelt him with their leaves.

And the gay green trees joke to the breeze, As the Sw.a.n.k struts proudly by; But every Glug, with reverence, Pays homage to his pride immense-- A homage deep to lofty rank-- The Sw.a.n.k! The Sw.a.n.k! The pompous Sw.a.n.k!

But the wind-borne leaves await their chance And round him gaily dance.

Now, trouble came to the land of Gosh: The fear of battle, and anxious days; And the Sw.a.n.ks were called to the great King Splosh, Who said that their system would not wash, And ordered other ways.

Then the Lord High Sw.a.n.k stretched forth a paw, And penned a minute re the law, And the Sw.a.n.ks, the Sw.a.n.ks, the other Sw.a.n.ks, The brother Sw.a.n.ks said, "Haw!"

These keen, resourceful, unremorseful, Forceful Sw.a.n.ks said, "Haw!"

Then Splosh, the king, in a royal rage, He smote his throne as he thundered, "Bosh!

In the whole wide land is there not one sage With a cool, clear brain, who'll straight engage To sweep the Sw.a.n.ks from Gosh?"

But the Lord High Stodge, from where he stood, Cried, "Barley! ... Guard your livelihood!"

And, quick as light, the teeming Sw.a.n.ks, The scheming Sw.a.n.ks touched wood.

Sages, plainly, labour vainly When the Sw.a.n.ks 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 Sw.a.n.k struts forth to court.

But every Glug casts down his eyes, And mutters, "Ain't 'is 'at a size!

For such a sight our G.o.ds we thank.

Sir Stodge, the Sw.a.n.k! The n.o.ble Sw.a.n.k!"

But the West wind tweaks his nose in sport; And the Sw.a.n.k struts into court.

Then roared the King with a rage intense, "Oh, who can cope with their magic tricks?"

But the Lord High Sw.a.n.k skipped nimbly hence, And hid him safe behind the fence Of Regulation VI.

And under Section Four Eight 0 The Sw.a.n.ks, the Sw.a.n.ks, dim forms of Sw.a.n.ks, The swarms of Sw.a.n.ks lay low-- These most tenacious, perspicacious, s.p.a.cious Sw.a.n.ks 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 Sw.a.n.k swaddled his portly shape, Like a large, insane coc.o.o.n.

Then round and round and round and round.

The Sw.a.n.ks, the Sw.a.n.ks, the whirling Sw.a.n.ks, The twirling Sw.a.n.ks they wound-- The swathed and swaddled, molly-coddled Sw.a.n.ks 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 Sw.a.n.k abroad.

But every Glug, whoe'er he be, Salutes, with grave humility And deference to n.o.ble rank, The Sw.a.n.k, the Sw.a.n.k, the swollen Sw.a.n.k; 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 Sw.a.n.k still ruled King Splosh With laws of blither and rules of bosh, From out his lair of tape.

And in coc.o.o.ns that mocked the Glug The Sw.a.n.ks, the Sw.a.n.ks, the under-Sw.a.n.ks, The dunder Sw.a.n.ks lay snug.

These most politic, parasitic, Critic Sw.a.n.ks lay snug.

Then mourn with me for a luckless land, Oh, weep with me for the slaves of tape!

Where the Lord High Sw.a.n.k 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 Sw.a.n.k, the Sw.a.n.k, the grievous Sw.a.n.k, The devious Sw.a.n.k pulled strings-- The perspicacious, contumacious Sw.a.n.k 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 Sw.a.n.k 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 Sw.a.n.k! The Sw.a.n.k! The holy Sw.a.n.k!"

But the wild winds s.n.a.t.c.h 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 cla.s.sic that n.o.body reads, And n.o.body asks for, and n.o.body heeds; Which makes it a cla.s.sic, 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 n.o.body knows; And it tells in a style that is terse and correct Of the rule of the Sw.a.n.ks 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 n.o.body 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 Sw.a.n.ks 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 G.o.ds'; 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 t.i.tle 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 n.o.body 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.