When morning comes on Grimbled Grove,
Oh how fine a day to be,
A crinkled mess on shore and land,
The Griggalorth will be.
A mighty beast of horn and fur,
Though timid to the sun,
Comes bounding, tumbling, fumbling over,
The hills of mossy scrum.
A placid beast of best unknown,
To kin and children borne,
Do fear the feral antics of,
That which has such fearsome horn.
Clawed and broad are both his paws,
Yet ambivalent to his plans,
Oh thou that stumbles in Grimbled Grove,
Be subject to his plans.
Through day he rests, oblivious,
To sandy storms and lore,
Though bitter winds may whisper through,
And tug bitterly at his paw.
The Griggalorth doth rest and wait,
For timing most untrue,
Oh hapless thou that stumble here,
A most grievous end to you.