And every cloud that sails aloft,
And every breeze that blows so soft,
   And every star that shines at night,
   All know the Glugs quite well by sight. 
For they say, “Our test, it is safe and true;
What one Glug does, the other Glugs do;
   And they climb the trees when the weather is hot,
   For a birds’-eye view of the garden plot. 
      Of course, it’s rot,
   But they love that view of the garden plot.”

At half-past two on a Wednesday morn
A most peculiar Glug was born;
   And later on, when he grew a man,
   He scoffed and sneered at the Chosen Plan. 
“It’s wrong!” said this Glug, whose name was Joi. 
“Bah!” said the Glugs.  “He’s a crazy boy!”
   And they climbed the trees, as the West wind stirred,
   To hark to the note of the Guffer Bird. 
      It seems absurd,
   But they’re foolishly fond of the Guffer Bird.

And every reed that rustles and sways
By the gurgling river that plashes and plays,
   And the beasts of the dread, neurotic night
   All know the Glugs quite well by sight. 
And, “Why,” say they; “It is easily done;
For a dexter Glug’s like a sinister one!”
   And they climb the trees.  Oh, they climb the trees! 
   And they bark their knuckles, and chafe their knees;
   And ’tis one of the world’s great mysteries
      That things like these
   Get into the serious histories.

III.  THE STONES OF GOSH

Now, here is a tale of the Glugs of Gosh,
   And a wonderful tale I ween,
Of the Glugs of Gosh and their great King Splosh,
   And Tush, his virtuous Queen. 
And here is a tale of the crafty Ogs,
   In their neighbouring land of Podge;
Of their sayings and doings and plottings and brewings,
   And something about Sir Stodge. 
      Wise to profundity,
      Stout to rotundity,
   That was the Knight, Sir Stodge.

Oh, the King was rich, and the Queen was fair,
And they made a very respectable pair. 
   And whenever a Glug in that peaceful land,
   Did anything no one could understand,
The Knight, Sir Stodge, he looked in a book,
And charged that Glug with a crime called Crook. 
   And the great Judge Fudge, who wore for a hat
   The sacred skin of a tortoiseshell cat,
He fined that Glug for his action rash,
And frequently asked a deposit in cash. 
   Then every Glug, he went home to his rest
   With his head in a bag and his toes to the West;
      For they knew it was best,
   Since their grandpas slept with their toes to the West.

But all of the tale that is so far told
   Has nothing whatever to do
With the Ogs of Podge, and their crafty dodge,
   And the trade in pickles and glue. 
To trade with the Glugs came the Ogs to Gosh,
   And they said in seductive tones,
“We’ll sell you pianers and pickels and spanners
   For seventeen shiploads of stones: 
      Smooth ’uns or nobbly ’uns,
      Firm ’uns or wobbly ’uns,
   All we ask is stones.”