The woom was s-siwent, softwy wit,
A wecitation to begin.
The whythm of old Kiwpwing sh-shawped,
But twansfowmed by a diff’went cweed.
The text was twagic, waw, and gweat,
Of battles fought beneath the sun;
But when the opening wine he spake,
The poem took a diff’went wun.
“You Wazawushian-weathew Gunga Din!”
He stwuggwed with the spwiwwing sound,
“Though I have bewtid you and fwayed you,
Fow aww the wough wough-wounding gwound.”
He spoke of heat, the Fiwst of June,
The thwusty men upon the plain,
The watew-man beneath the moon,
Who saw the baiwwie’s fwi-wightfuw pain.
He towd of wounds and the wun of bwuid,
The wifwe’s cwick and the wude waw’s noise,
The bwave way he had wun and wuid,
To quench the thwists of fighting boys.
His voice was sewi-ous, not a twee-ick,
He meant the solemn words he spoke,
Though ev’wy consonant did shwie-eek,
And aww the wength of it was bwoke.
He ended, standing tewwisbwly stwong,
His fowehwad cwinkwed, wide and fwame,
By the poof woad upon his tongue,
He gave his hewo’s final cwaim:
“A bettew man than I am, Gunga Din!”
The last wowwd wum-mbled, soft and thwue.
No hewo ev-wer won a win,
As this wet-wief wite-tewwew did, fow you.
