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94
THE GLUGS OF GOSH
And it seems weary years since we sniffed at the breeze
As it hums thro' the hedges and sings in the trees.
These we know and we love. But this city holds fears,
O my friend of the road, with the funny prick ears.
And for what may we hope from his Worship of Quog?"
"Oh, a bone and a kick," said the little red dog.
