And every shadow that flits and hides,
And every stream that glistens and glides
    And laughs its way from a highland height,
    All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
And they say, “Our test is the best by far;
For a Glug is a Glug; so there you are!
    And they climb the trees when it drizzles or hails
    To get electricity into their nails;
                And the Glug that fails
    Is a luckless Glug, if it drizzles or hails.”

Now, the Glugs abide in the lands of Gosh;
And they work all day for the sake of Splosh.
    For Splosh, the First, is the Nation’s pride,
    And King of the Glugs, on his uncle’s side.
And they sleep at night, for the sake of rest;
For their doctors say this suits them best.
    And they climb the trees, as a general rule,
    For exercise, when the weather is cool.
                They’re taught at school
    To climb the trees when the weather is cool.

And the whispering grass on the gay green hills
And every cricket that skirls and shrills,
    And every moonbeam, gleaming white,
    All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
And they say, “It is safe, it is the test we bring;
For a Glug is an awful Gluglike thing.
    And they climb the trees when there’s a sign of fog,
    To scan the land for a feasible dog.
                They love to jog
    Thro’ dells in quest of a feasible dog.”

The Glugs eat meals three times a day
Because their fathers ate that way.
    Their grandpas said the scheme was good
    To help the Glugs digest their food.
And ’tis wholesome food the Glugs have got,
For it says so plain on the tin and pot.
    And they climb the trees when the weather is dry
    To get a glimpse of the pale green sky.
                We don’t know why,
    But they like to gaze on a pale green sky.

And every cloud that sails aloft,
And every breeze that blows so soft,
    And every star that shines at night,
    All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
For they say, “Our test, it is safe and true;
What one Glug does, the other Glugs do;
    And they climb the trees when the weather is hot,
    For a birds’-eye view of the garden plot.
                Of course, it’s rot,
    But they love that view of the garden plot.”

At half-past two on a Wednesday morn
A most peculiar Glug was born;
    And later on, when he grew a man,
    He scoffed and sneered at the Chosen Plan.
“It’s wrong!” said this Glug, whose name was Joi.
“Bah!” said the Glugs.    “He’s a crazy boy!”
    And they climbed the trees, as the West wind stirred,
    To hark to the note of the Guffer Bird.
                It seems absurd,
    But they’re foolishly fond of the Guffer Bird.

And every reed that rustles and sways
By the gurgling river that plashes and plays,
    And the beasts of the dread, neurotic night
    All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
And, “Why,” say they; “It is easily done;
For a dexter Glug’s like a sinister one!”
    And they climb the trees.    Oh, they climb the trees!
    And they bark their knuckles, and chafe their knees;
    And ’tis one of the world’s great mysteries
                That things like these
    Get into the serious histories.