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.
Stevie Smith
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