<poem> He gurgled "Un-Gluggish!" His heart growing sluggish, He solemnly sank to rest. 'Tis inconceivable, Scarcely believable, Yet, he was sent to rest.
And the King said, "Ouch!" And the Queen said, "Oo! 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;
