And bottles cf 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?"
