And the King said, “Ouch!” And the Queen
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?”
Government muddles, departments dazed,
Fear and confusion wherever he gazed;
Order insulted, authority spurned,
Dread and distraction wherever he turned—
Oh, the great King Splosh was a sad, sore king,
With never a statesman to straighten the thing.
Glus all importunate urging their claims,
With selfish intent and ulterior aims,
Glugs with petitions for this and for that,
Standing ten-deep on the royal door-mat,
Raging when nobody answered their ring—
Oh, the great King Splosh was a careworn king.
And he looked to the right, and he glanced to the
And he glared at the roof like a monarch bereft
Of his wisdom and wits and his wealth all in one;
And, at least once a minute, asked, “What’s to be done?”
But the Swanks stood around him and answered, with groans,
“Your majesty, Gosh is half buried in stones!”
“How now?” cried the King. “Is
there not in my land
One Glug who can cope with this dreadful demand:
A rich man, a poor man, a beggar man, thief—
I reck not his rank so he lessen my grief—
A soldier, a sailor, a—” Raising his head,
With relief in his eye, “Now, I mind me!” he said.