(To the tune of Oh Bring Me Your Winding-Sheet, Mother Of Mine)

My name is P.V.Glob
I wrote a book about a bog
“Bog” spelled backwards is “Gob”
And that is the name of my dog

In Russian, “God” is “Bog”
And my dog Gob’s a dog-god
He sleeps all day like a log
For a dog he’s a lazy sod

I walk Gob to the bog
To wake him from his snooze
I can’t see the bog for the fog
But I hear the cows’ plaintive moos

There are, you see, cows near the bog
And one of them is a cow-god
A god like Gog and Magog
Gods who are really quite odd

So slumped in the muck by the bog
Invisible because of the fog
There’s me, the writer P.V.Glob
And my little pet doggie, Gob

He is by no means a fearsome hound
Wait! What’s that uncanny sound?
It’s the sound of the cow-god’s bog-side mooing
The sound of my and Gob’s undoing.