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Over the purple mountaintops,
And far towards the east,
Just beyond the old treetops,
Is where you’ll find the beast.


He smells like the foot of a withered old toad,
He lives in a maggoty swamp.
I pity the man who would look for the road
To the horrid and hideous Glomp


His skin is dark green
And his hair is a mess,
He never does preen
And you’ll never guess;


He’s covered in warts
With gross scabby knees,
He breaks into forts
And take what he sees.


Some say that the Glomp is a misshapen guy,
Or possibly misunderstood.
Maybe one day we can finally sigh
When the Glomp goes and leaves us for good.

A poem i wrote, it's ok i guess...