In peaceful days when the countryside
   Poured wealth to Gosh, and the skies were blue,
The great King Splosh no fault espied,
And seemed entirely satisfied
        With Swanks who muddled thro’. 
But when they fell on seasons bad,
   Oh, then the Swanks, the bustled Swanks,
        The hustled Swanks went mad—­
The minute-writing, nation-blighting,
        Skiting Swanks went mad.

The tall trees sway like boys at play,
   And mock him when he grieves,
As one by one, in laughing fun,
   They pelt him with their leaves. 
And the gay green trees joke to the breeze,
   As the Swank struts proudly by;
But every Glug, with reverence,
Pays homage to his pride immense—­
   A homage deep to lofty rank—­
   The Swank!  The Swank!  The pompous Swank! 
But the wind-borne leaves await their chance
        And round him gaily dance.

Now, trouble came to the land of Gosh: 
   The fear of battle, and anxious days;
And the Swanks were called to the great King Splosh,
Who said that their system would not wash,
        And ordered other ways. 
Then the Lord High Swank stretched forth a paw,
And penned a minute re the law,
   And the Swanks, the Swanks, the other Swanks,
        The brother Swanks said, “Haw!”
These keen, resourceful, unremorseful,
        Forceful Swanks said, “Haw!”

Then Splosh, the king, in a royal rage,
   He smote his throne as he thundered, “Bosh! 
In the whole wide land is there not one sage
With a cool, clear brain, who’ll straight engage
        To sweep the Swanks from Gosh?”
But the Lord High Stodge, from where he stood,
Cried, “Barley! . . .  Guard your livelihood!”
   And, quick as light, the teeming Swanks,
        The scheming Swanks touched wood. 
Sages, plainly, labour vainly
        When the Swanks touch wood.

The stealthy cats that grace the mats
   Before the doors of Gosh,
Smile wide with scorn each sunny morn;
   And, as they take their wash,
A sly grimace o’erspreads each face
   As the Swank struts forth to court. 
But every Glug casts down his eyes,
And mutters, “Ain’t ’is ’at a size! 
   For such a sight our gods we thank. 
   Sir Stodge, the Swank!  The noble Swank!”
But the West wind tweaks his nose in sport;
        And the Swank struts into court.

Then roared the King with a rage intense,
   “Oh, who can cope with their magic tricks?”
But the Lord High Swank skipped nimbly hence,
And hid him safe behind the fence
        Of Regulation VI. 
And under Section Four Eight 0
   The Swanks, the Swanks, dim forms of Swanks,
        The swarms of Swanks lay low—­
These most tenacious, perspicacious,
        Spacious Swanks lay low.