Come mourn with me for the land of Gosh,
   Oh, weep with me for the luckless Glugs
Of the land of Gosh, where the sad seas wash
The patient shores, and the great King Splosh
        His sodden sorrow hugs;
Where the fair Queen Tush weeps all the day,
   And the Swank, the Swank, the naughty Swank,
        The haughty Swank holds sway—­
The most mendacious, ostentatious,
        Spacious Swank holds sway.

’Tis sorrow-swathed, as I know full well,
   And garbed in gloom and the weeds of woe,
And vague, so far, is the tale I tell;
But bear with me for the briefest spell,
        And surely shall ye know
Of the land of Gosh, and Tush, and Splosh,
   And Stodge, the Swank, the foolish Swank,
        The mulish Swank of Gosh-
The meretricious, avaricious,
        Vicious Swank of Gosh.

Oh, the tall trees bend, and green trees send
   A chuckle round the earth,
And the soft winds croon a jeering tune,
   And the harsh winds shriek with mirth,
And the wee small birds chirp ribald words
   When the Swank walks down the street;
But every Glug takes off his hat,
And whispers humbly, “Look at that! 
   Hats off!  Hats off to the Glug of rank! 
   Sir Stodge, the Swank, the Lord High Swank!”
Then the East wind roars a loud guffaw,
And the haughty Swank says, “Haw!”

His brain is dull, and his mind is dense,
   And his lack of saving wit complete;
But most amazingly immense
Is his inane self-confidence
        And his innate conceit. 
But every Glug, and great King Splosh
   Bowed to Sir Stodge, the fuddled Swank,
        The muddled Swank of Gosh—­
The engineering, peeping, peering,
        Sneering Swank of Gosh.

In Gosh, sad Gosh, where the Lord Swank lives,
   He holds high rank, and he has much pelf;
And all the well-paid posts he gives
Unto his fawning relatives,
        As foolish as himself. 
In offices and courts and boards
   Are Swanks, and Swanks, ten dozen Swanks,
        And cousin Swanks in hordes—­
Inept and musty, dry and dusty,
        Rusty Swanks in hordes.

The clouds so soft, that sail aloft,
   Weep laughing tears of rain;
The blue sky spread high overhead
   Peeps thro’ in mild disdain. 
All nature laughs and jeers and chaffs
   When the Swank goes out to walk;
But every Glug bows low his head,
And says in tones surcharged with dread,
   “Bow low, bow low, Glugs lean, Glugs fat!”
   But the North wind snatches off his hat,
And flings it high, and shrieks to see
        His ruffled dignity.

They lurk in every Gov’ment lair,
   ’Mid docket dull and dusty file,
Solemnly squat in an easy chair,
Penning a minute of rare hot air
        In departmental style. 
In every office, on every floor
   Are Swanks, and Swanks, distracting Swanks,
        And Acting-Swanks a score,
And coldly distant, sub-assistant
        Under-Swanks galore.