Poj, he was a thrinklewaart, A blostule, yes he was, He never tried to wrostenshig, Or schlapple on the fozz. Now, Poj has tried squip deripp, But spat it out in gloo, It landed on his father’s pok, Out of the rix, poj was threw. Now, I is not a semple bod, I know poj is not real, But a gec idea is a gec idea, But of it, I grooked a meal. In this wereld of grossing flesz, Poj, rules all, he’s kling. His ‘ed atop, there is a croon, Of gold and rue, by dring. To sit in statue of frozkenwig, To sit by Poj and stare, To look a grootness in the eye, And know, you shuddent be there. So, Poj, the lord, the lord of all,