"GOG."
(To the Author of "Jong," Punch, September 19th.)
O singer sublime of Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong,
It isn't envy, the green and yellow,
That makes me take up my lyre, old fellow,
And burst with a fierce cacophonous bellow
Across the path of your song.
I want to propose another name,
Unknown to you and unknown to fame;
It is like the sound of a hand-sawn log
Or the hostile hark of a husky dog:
Chagogagog-munchogagog-chabun-agungamog!
This cracker of jaws is a lake, I'm told, a lake in the U.S.A.,
And first the Indians, the red sort, owned it,
But later to Uncle Sam they loaned it,
Who afterwards made no bones, but boned it
In the fine Autolycus way;
And though life wasn't a matter vital
He kept with the lake its rasping title,
Which recalls the croak of an amorous frog
Or a siren heard in an ocean fog:
Chagogagog-munchogagog-chabun-agungamog!