There’s a Gruble in my garden

wearing rainbow coloured clothes.

He lives beneath the gimble patch

where no one ever goes.

If you’re curious I’ll show you,

but you’ve got to promise me,

you’ll never tell a single soul.

That’s how it’s got to be.

We’ll tiptoe from our bedrooms

and steal along the hall,

then down the stairs, across the yard

up to the garden wall.

We’ve got to be as quiet as mice

‘cause on the other side,

if the Gruble hears a noise,

beneath the gimble patch he’ll hide.

He won’t be there this morning,

nor in the afternoon.

But set your clock for midnight

and provided there’s a moon

He’ll be digging out the mungle weeds

and chopping through the ling,

to clear the ground of carbles

for the annual rickshing.    

It’s a really wondrous sight to see 

 this rickshing celebration.

Grubles come from every corner

of the Gruble nation.     

                                                                                     Their tables all are laden                                                                                

with every fine delight;

baked bullwort, creamy piggler

and barbequed quambite.

The party lasts for eldons,

till the mungle weed grows back.

Then they finish with a lively dance

they call the rakanbak.

But as the moon gets lower.

Just before the sun turns red.

The Grubles leave the way they came

and go back home to bed.

And the Gruble in my garden

with the rainbow coloured clothes?

Well – he’s back beneath the gimble patch

where no one ever goes.