I happened in Gosh on an ancient day,
In the land of Glugs far, far away
Where the skies are green and the grass is pink
And the citizens rarely troubl'd to think.
Each had a vote; they were proud of that;
But they left all else to the Bureaucrat.
Still, of course, such folly never could be
In a civilised land this year A.D.
A junior clerk in Department A
Sent a requisition in one day
For a mousetrap to Department B.
This came to the ears of Department C,
Whose head said, 'Just a moment please.
You control the traps, but we the cheese.'
Then Department D chipped in in a trice
And cried, 'Checkmate! We control the mice.'
Then Departments E, F, G, H, I
Became involved, and the talk ran high,
Till the Livestock Branch got dragged in, too,
And the Vermin Board, and I don't know who
Besides, till the mousetrap matter grew
From a mild dispute 'mid a trifling few
To a Public Question so immense
That a tax was levied to meet expense.
Well, time rolled on, as it ever has rolled
And the junior clerk, now bald and old,
Received a pink form one fine day
Which said, 'One trap, mouse. Passed O.K.'
But he answered, this impatient chap,
Grown peevish, too, 'Keep your blinkin' trap!
For a trap I made from an old jam tin
Long since; and I caught my mouse therein.'
So an issue rose of a different sort,
And they sued the clerk in the State High Court
Which sat so long and talked such bosh
That a fierce Dictator loomed in Gosh;
And he took one long, deep, shuddering breath
And condemned that junior clerk to death
And then, when they sought the man, they found
He had been some twelve years underground.
Such is the tale. But, understand
It happened in Gosh - a backward land
Inhabited then by a race called Glugs,
Free-born, with a vote, but mostly mugs
For, of course, such nonsense never could be
In a modern, model Democracy
Like ours. Things never could happen so.
Absurd!... Or could they? ...Oh, I don't know.
- 112 Views
Find a translation for this poem in other languages:
Select another language:
- - Select -
- 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
- 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
- Español (Spanish)
- Esperanto (Esperanto)
- 日本語 (Japanese)
- Português (Portuguese)
- Deutsch (German)
- العربية (Arabic)
- Français (French)
- Русский (Russian)
- ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
- 한국어 (Korean)
- עברית (Hebrew)
- Український (Ukrainian)
- اردو (Urdu)
- Magyar (Hungarian)
- मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
- Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Italiano (Italian)
- தமிழ் (Tamil)
- Türkçe (Turkish)
- తెలుగు (Telugu)
- ภาษาไทย (Thai)
- Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
- Čeština (Czech)
- Polski (Polish)
- Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Românește (Romanian)
- Nederlands (Dutch)
- Ελληνικά (Greek)
- Latinum (Latin)
- Svenska (Swedish)
- Dansk (Danish)
- Suomi (Finnish)
- فارسی (Persian)
- ייִדיש (Yiddish)
- հայերեն (Armenian)
- Norsk (Norwegian)
- English (English)
Discuss this Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis poem with the community:
Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:
"The Griefs of Ancient Gosh" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2019. Web. 13 Dec. 2019. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/6661/the-griefs-of-ancient-gosh>.