The Nasties were a borrid band,
All in the mont
At first they kissy midden hats,
All mumsy like a twit.
The Nasties singy “La!” like plumbs,
Espeshy on a sunny,
They stroked our furry magic pings,
Until they la-la funny.
And never did us stop a think,
That Nasties could a nasty,
Because, you see, the Nasties slurped
Our troubles chumbly-charsty.
We satty round all day and let
The Nasties yummy sweeties,
All fla
The Nasties had us tweeties.
But soon enough those Nasties changed,
As Nasties oft so do,
They shifty like a sandy slime,
Before it gloopy goo.
“You shranks!” they shrieked, just like a Glat,
Who’d cankled on his conkle.
“We’ll smam your martin whiffle-pops!”
Then started they to fronkle.
The Nasties fronkled on our whoops,
They fronkled on our mindows,
And when they’d finished fronkling them,
They fronkled on our windows.
They fronkled on we hunty toffs,
Without a dee-dum-doo,
And laughed without a mendle-meach,
As if they fland or floo.
As that if wasn’t bad enough,
They fronkled onny Doosh,
So up us got just like a clot,
To dang them with our Moosh!
But O! Alas! Alack! And woe!
And wither was us Piffles?
For our poor Moosh it had been stole,
By Nasties wielding sniffles.
Thus, all was lost, we skunked the cost,
Of being nice to Nasties,
We felt just like a pile of dead,
Decaying, stimpy-arsties!
This devastanding death of us,
From all the ibby fronkling,
Was quitey mosty spairing clonk,
As rot we as a donkling.
The years they passed just like a stone,
What’s plopped inside a flap,
And then the most boracious thing –
We came to life like clap!
Us piffles were a ghosty band,
Of ghosty-ghosty-ghoulies!
We raised us up into the land,
And looky Nasty foolies.
The Nasty fools were clumping clods,
And sminking on the quiet.
They didn’t notice Piffles creep,
To make us ghostly riot.
“Oh, scream! Oh, yell! I’ve wet my conks!”
They fraffled all as one.
And this was most disparious,
And killed them like a gun.
For Nasties need to keepem conks,
All splendy, yum and dry.
Because, tha knows, if conks go wet,
It kill ‘em and they die.
Us Piffles were a ghosty band,
All in the month of Shit.
We scaried all them Nasties, Oh!
All mumsy like a twit.
I shall think on this every time the month of Shit comes by.
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