“Beware this injurious, furious brute;
He’s ready to rend you with tooth and with claw. 
Tho’ ’tis incredible,
Anything edible
Disappears suddenly into his maw: 
Into his cavernous inner interior
Vanishes evrything strictly superior.”

He calls it “Woman,” he calls it “Wine,” he calls it “Devils” and “Dice”;
He calls it “Surfing” and “Sunday Golf’ and names that are not so nice. 
But whatever he calls it-"Morals” or “Mirth"-he is on with the hunt right quick
For his sorrow he’d hug like a gloomy Gllig if he hadn’t a dog to kick. 
So any old night, if the stars are right, vou will find him, hot on the trail
Of a feasible dog and a teasable dog, with a can to tie to his tail. 
And the song that he roars to the shuddering stars is a worthy and excellent thing. 
(Yet how could you hear him singing a song if there wasn’t a song to sing?)

“I’ve watched his abdominous, ominous shape
Abroad in the land while the nation has slept,
Marked his satanical
Methods tyrannical;
Rigorous, vigorous vigil I kept. 
Good gracious!  Voracious is hardly the name for it! 
Yet we have only our blindness to blame for it.

“My dear, I’ve autoptical, optical proof
That he’s prowling and growling at large in the land. 
Hear his pestiferous
Clamour vociferous,
Gurgles and groans of the beastliest brand. 
Some may regard his contortions as comical. 
But I’ve the proof that his game’s gastronomical.

“Beware this obstreperous, leprous beast—­
A treacherous wretch, for I know him of old. 
I’m on the track of him,
Close at the back of him,
And I’m aware his ambitions are bold;
For he’s yearning and burning to snare the superior
Into his roomy and gloomy interior.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Such a shouting and yelling of hearty Bravoes,
Such a craning of necks and a standing on toes
   Seemed to leave ne’er a doubt that the Tinker’s last rhyme
   Had now won him repute ’mid the Glugs for all time. 
And they all said the rhyme was the grandest they’d heard: 
More especially those who had not caught a word.

But the Mayor said:  Peace!  And he stood, without fear,
As the leader of all to whom Justice was dear. 
   For the Tinker had rhymed, as the Prophet foretold,
   And a light was let in on the errors of old. 
For in every line, and in every verse
Was the proof that Sir Stodge was a traitor, and worse!

Sir Stodge (said the Mayor), must go from his place;
And the Swanks, one and all, were a standing disgrace! 
   For the influence won o’er a weak, foolish king
   Was a menace to Gosh, and a scandalous thing! 
“And now,” said the Mayor, “I stand here to-day
As your leader and friend.”  And the Glugs said, “Hooray!”