Far north of North Portland, just past Mount Mahorn You'll find the brown shack where the Grumple was born He lived all his days in that brown domicile Just drumming his Grump-drum and smiling his smile Till one day his neighbors, each wearing a frown Cried "monster!" and "kill it!" and burned the place down The Grumple was frightened but quick to forgive He knew he'd find somewhere a Grumple could live He traveled by night, always hiding in shadow And searched all through Georgia and then Colorado Till seeing Fair Springfield, where once was a dome, He giggled and jiggled and knew he was home
"I'll find a nice house, where a Grumple can drum, Why there's dozens of blue ones to generate income!" And so off he set, with a "Grumplety-Groo! I've excellent credit and references too!"
The Grumple, determined, searched high and searched low, He wanted a floor plan with really good flow And found just the place! In the center of town Was a home that was pleasant and best of all…BROWN!
He bought chairs and tables, though Grumples aren’t rich (and strangely are fond of mid-century kitsch) He painted and sanded, real manual labors And prayed that he wouldn't get killed by his neighbors And lo and behold! the neighbors were nice! Excepting, perhaps, the ones just to his right. It’s not that the Simpsons were awful unfriendly It’s just that they argued and yelled never-endly A Grumple needs plenty of shut-eye each night But Simpson-y screaming made Grumple uptight
Would Simpsons be quiet, if Grumple asked nicely? He begged them all once-ly, then pled with them twice-ly But still, on they bellowed their bellow-ous roaring And if they were sleeping, the fat one was snoring If only the Simpsons had realized their danger They might have respected this furry green stranger And Grumple, that fun-loving, peaceable sort He tried to find some way to be a good sport To quiet the rage to which he was succumbing The Grumple tried drumming, and drumming, and drumming
A well-rested Grumple is happy-go-lucky A sleep-deprived Grumple? There's no one more sucky The Grumple fought daily with murderous urges, And dreams of dead Simpsons would flood him in surges But maybe -- just maybe! -- all would have been well Had Homer not done the next thing I will tell Not paying attention while driving is dumb, And Homer's car, backing, crushed Grumple's Grump-drum This drum Grumple's father had made for his son Ere he died in the Great Grumple War of Aught-One The drum went cuh-runch! And then Homer yelled "crap!" And something inside of the Grumple went snap! Down deep in his psyche a switch went flip-flop, And poor Grumple's sanity burst with a pop!
If Grumple had bothered to tie up the baby, He’d still be alive today, Grump-drumming, maybe But Maggie was, after all, Mr. Burns’ shooter, If you don’t believe me, go ask your computer The Grumple, he never had any idea That of all the Simpsons (who’re drawn in Korea) The deadliest, shootin’-est one of them all Was Maggie, who shot his brains onto the wall
The Grumple’s last thought as life he did lose, Was “Grumple you, Simpsons! You Grumplety Groos!”