I always thought Dr. Seuss had a once-in-a-species monopoly on the fusion of bizarre landscapes, incredible rhythm, and social satire. Now I’m not so sure.

Catch the four-thirty; your ticket in hand,
  Punched by the porter who broods in his box;
Journey afar to the sad, soggy land,
  Wearing your shot-silk lavender socks.
Wait at the creek by the moss-grown log
  Till the blood of a slain day reddens the West.
Hark for the croak of a gentleman frog,
  Of a corpulent frog with a white satin vest.

Go as he guides you, over the marsh,
  Treading with care on the slithery stones,
Heedless of night winds moaning and harsh
  That seize you and freeze you and search for your bones.
On to the edge of a still, dark pool,
  Banishing thoughts of your warm wool rug;
Gaze in the depths of it, placid and cool,
  And long in your heart for one glimpse of a Glug.

That’s The Glugs of Gosh, by C. J. Dennis. (I apologize if any of the lines spill over onto the menu; I need to set my font a little smaller to catch those last words myself.) The title alone set it off from the rest as I browsed the Librivox catalog, and I even started reading the text as I waited for the mp3 to download. The similarity to Seuss floored me. I dimly realized there might be a whole heritage of epic comic verse lurking out there. Yet even this epiphany was eclipsed as the Glugs suddenly turned horribly familiar. Guess when this was written…

But all of the tale that is so far told
   Has nothing whatever to do
With the Ogs of Podge, and their crafty dodge,
   And the trade in pickles and glue.
To trade with the Glugs came the Ogs to Gosh,
   And they said in seductive tones,
"We'll sell you pianers and pickels and spanners
   For seventeen shiploads of stones:
      Smooth 'uns or nobbly 'uns,
      Firm 'uns or wobbly 'uns,
   All we ask is stones."

And the King said, "What?" and the Queen said, "Why,
That is awfully cheap to the things I buy!
   For that grocer of ours in the light brown hat
   Asks two and eleven for pickles like that!"
But a Glug stood up with a wart on his nose,
And cried, "Your Majesties! Ogs is foes!"
   But the Glugs cried, "Peace! Will you hold your jaw!
   How did our grandpas fashion the law?"
Said the Knight, Sir Stodge, as he opened his Book,
"When the goods were cheap then the goods we took."
   So they fined the Glug with the wart on his nose
   For wearing a wart with his everyday clothes.
And the goods were brought home thro' a Glug named Ghones;
And the Ogs went home with their loads of stones,
   Which they landed with glee in the land of Podge.
      Do you notice the dodge?
   Not yet did the Glugs, nor the Knight, Sir Stodge.

In the following Summer the Ogs came back
   With a cargo of eight-day clocks,
And hand-painted screens, and sewing machines,
   And mangles, and scissors, and socks.
And they said, "For these excellent things we bring
   We are ready to take more stones;
      And in bricks or road-metal
      For goods you will settle
   Indented by your Mister Ghones."
      Cried the Glugs praisingly,
      "Why how amazingly
   Smart of industrious Ghones!"

And the King said, "Hum," and the Queen said, "Oo!
That curtain!  What a bee-ootiful blue!"
   But a Glug stood up with some very large ears,
   And said, "There is more in this thing than appears!
And we ought to be taxing those goods of the Ogs,
Or our industries soon will be gone to the dogs."
   And the King said, "Bosh!  You're un-Gluggish and rude!"
   And the Queen said, "What an absurd attitude!"
Then the Glugs cried, "Down with political quacks!
How did our grandpas look at a tax?"
   So the Knight, Sir Stodge, he opened his Book.
   "No tax," said he, "wherever I look."
Then they fined the Glug with the prominent ears
For being old-fashioned by several years;
   And the Ogs went home with the stones, full-steam.
      Did you notice the scheme?
   Nor yet did the Glugs in their dreamiest dreams.

Then every month to the land of the Gosh
   The Ogs, they continued to come,
With buttons and hooks, and medical books,
   And rotary engines, and rum,
Large cases with labels, occasional tables,
   Hair tonic and fiddles and 'phones;
And the Glugs, while copncealing their joy in the dealing,
   Paid promptly in nothing but stones.
      Why, it was screamingly
      Laughable, seemingly---
   Asking for nothing but stones!

And the King said, "Haw!" and the Queen said, "Oh!
Our drawing-room now is a heavenly show
   Of large overmantels, and whatnots, and chairs,
   And a statue of Splosh at the head of the stairs!"
But a Glug stood up with a cast in his eye,
And he said, "Far too many baubles we buy;
   With all the Gosh factories closing their doors,
   And importers' warehouses lining our shores."
But the Glugs cried, "Down with such meddlesome fools!
What did our grandpas lay down in their rules?"
   And the Knight, Sir Stodge, he opened his Book:
   "To Cheapness," he said, "was the road they took."
Then every Glug who was not too fat
Turned seventeen handsprings, and jumped on his hat.
   They fined the Glug with the cast in his eye
   For looking both ways--which he did not deny--
And for having no visible precedent, which
Is a crime in the poor and a fault in the rich.

So the Glugs continued, with greed and glee,
To buy cheap clothing, and pills, and tea;
   Till every Glug in the land of Gosh
   Owned three clean shirts and a fourth in the wash.
But they all grew idle, and fond of ease,
And easy to swindle, and hard to please;
   And the voice of Joi was a lonely voice,
   When he railed at Gosh for its foolish choice.
But the great King grinned, and the good Queen gushed,
As the goods of the Ogs were madly rushed.
   And the Knight, Sir Stodge, with a wave of his hand,
   Declared it a happy and prosperous land.

That’s C. J. Dennis, in 1917. In Australia.

Of course, I don’t quite agree with all the fault-finding in the Glugs. It’s easy to knock tradition, and a bit harder to admit that our current traditions are quite recent innovations, as human history goes. But most of the poem is delicious.

But the practical aunt said, "Fudge!  You fool!
We'll pack up his dinner and send him to school.
   He shall learn about two-times and parsing and capes,
   And how to make money with inches on tapes.
We'll apprentice him then to the drapery trade,
Where, I've heard it reported, large profits are made;
Besides, he can sell us cheap buttons and braid."

So poor young Sym, he was sent to school,
Where the first thing taught is the Golden Rule.
   "Do unto others," the teacher said . . .
   Then suddenly stopped and scratched his head.
"You may look up the rest in a book," said he.
"At present it doesn't occur to me;
But do it, whatever it happens to be."

"And now," said the teacher, "the day's task brings
Consideration of practical things.
   If a man makes a profit of fifteen pounds
   On one week's takings from two milk rounds,
How many . . ." And Sym went dreaming away
To the sunlit lands where the field-mice play,
And wrens hold revel the livelong day.

But will Sym keep dreaming if the Ogs have their way? What can the crafty Ogs want with all those stones? Will the Glugs survive? You’ll just have to read the book, or even listen. Then you can comment, and we can argue about Glugs, and education, and going in debt to China, and the decision whether to flee the cadaver politic or make it into compost, and, most important of all, the true meaning of the Guffer Bird and the Snufflebust Palm.