Page:The Glugs of Gosh (C. J. Dennis, 1917).djvu/79

But in fifty fathoms of thin red tape
The Lord Swank swaddled his portly shape,
Like a large, insane cocoon.
Then round and round and round and round
The Swanks, the Swanks, the whirling Swanks,
The twirling Swanks they wound—
The swathed and swaddled, molly-coddled
Swanks inanely wound.

Each insect thing that comes in Spring
To gladden this sad earth,
It Hits and whirls and pipes and skirls.
It chirps in mocking mirth
A merry song the whole day long
To see the Swank abroad.
But every Glug, whoe'er he be.
Salutes, with grave humility
And deference to noble rank,
The Swank, the Swank, the swollen Swank;
But the South wind blows his clothes awry.
And Eings dust in his eye.

So trouble stayed in the land of Gosh;
And the futile Glugs could only gape.
While the Lord High Swank still ruled King Splosh
With laws of blither and rules of bosh,
From out his lair of tape.