Its turns and its quavers
And all the camp flavors
Of “Din,” “Gungha Din.”
I wish Rudyard Kipling could hear Schaffer chin
On “Din,” “Gungha Din,”
He catches its chiming,
Its scanning and rhyming,
And the depth of repining
In “Din,” “Gungha Din.”
With a mien that is grave, old Schaffer wades in