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The Glugs of Gosh

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I. THE GLUG QUEST Follow the river and cross the ford,Follow again to the wobbly bridge,Turn to the left at the notice board,Climbing the cow-track over the ridge;Tip-toe soft by the little red house,Hold your breath if they touch the latch,Creep to the slip-rails, still as a mouse,Then . . . run like mad for the bracken patch.Worm your way where the fern fronds tallFashion a lace-work over your head,Hemming you in with a high, green wall;Then, when the thrush calls once, stop dead.Ask of the old grey wallaby there--Him prick-eared by the woollybutt tree--How to encounter a Glug, and whereThe country of Gosh, famed Gosh may be.But, if he is scornful, if he is dumb,Hush! There's another way left. Then come.On a white, still night, where the dead tree bendsOver the track, like a waiting ghost,Travel the winding road that wendsDown to the shore on an Eastern coast.Follow it down where the wake of the moonKisses the ripples of silver sand;Follow it on where the night seas croonA traveller's tale to the listening land.Step not jauntily, not too grave,Till the lip of the languorous sea you greet;Wait till the wash of the thirteenth waveTumbles a jellyfish out at your feet.Not too hopefully, not forlorn,Whisper a word of your earnest quest;Shed not a tear if he turns in scornAnd sneers in your face like a fish possessed.Hist! Hope on! There is yet a way.Brooding jellyfish won't be gay.Wait till the clock in the tower booms three,And the big bank opposite gnashes its doors,Then glide with a gait that is carefully freeBy the great brick building of seventeen floors;Haste by the draper who smirks at his door,Straining to lure you with sinister force,Turn up the lane by the second-hand store,And halt by the light bay carrier's horse.By the carrier's horse with the long, sad faceAnd the wisdom of years in his mournful eye;Bow to him thrice with a courtier's grace,Proffer your query, and pause for reply.Eagerly ask for a hint of the Glug,Pause for reply with your hat in your hand;If he responds with a snort and a shrugStrive to interpret and understand.Rare will a carrier's horse condescend.Yet there's another way. On to the end!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 logTill 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 harshThat 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."Krock!" Was he mocking you? "Krock! Kor-r-rock!"Well, you bought a return, and it's past ten o'clock.Choose you a night when the intimate starsCarelessly prattle of cosmic affairs....