Our Bog is Dood

Our Bog is dood, our Bog is dood,

They lisped in accents mild,

But when I asked them to

They grew a little wild.

How do you know your Bog is

My darling little child?

We know because we wish it

That is enough, they cried,

And straight within each infant

Stood up the flame of pride,

And if you do not think it

You shall be crucified.

Then tell me, darling little ones,

What's dood, suppose Bog is?

Just what we think, the answer came,

Just what we think it is.

They bowed their heads.

Our Bog is

And we are wholly his.

But when they raised them up

They had forgotten

Each one upon each other

In pride and

For what was dood, and what their

They never could agree.

Oh sweet it was to leave them then,

And sweeter not to see,

And sweetest of all to walk

Beside the encroaching sea,

The sea that soon should drown them all,

That never yet drowned me.