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.”