Lyrics
Verse 1] In the heart of a dusty, forgotten library, there resides a peculiar being—the Globglogabgalab. His existence defies the laws of physics and reason. Imagine a sentient mound of dough, plump and sagging, with a face that seems to have absorbed every book cover ever printed. His eyes, like ancient manuscripts, flicker with the wisdom of ages.
The Globglogabgalab revels in his bibliophilic bliss. His cavernous abode echoes with the rustling of pages, the creaking of shelves, and the occasional hiccup of enlightenment. His favorite pastime? Devouring books—literally. He chews on their spines, savoring the ink-stained marrow of knowledge. The more obscure the tome, the more it tickles his taste buds.
[Chorus] Shwabble dabble glibble glabble schribble shwap glab,
Dibble dabble shribble shrabble glibbi-glap shwap,
Shwabble dabble glibble glabble shwibble shwap-dap,
Dibble dabble shribble shrabble glibbi-shwap glab.
His mind is a kaleidoscope of narratives. The epic sagas of knights and dragons swirl alongside treatises on quantum physics. He dreams in footnotes and indexes, and his snores sound suspiciously like footnotes themselves—tiny, parenthetical murmurs.
[Verse 2] The Globglogabgalab’s corpulence is a testament to his insatiable hunger for stories. His flabby folds ripple as he waddles through the stacks, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs (and occasionally, half-digested encyclopedias). His fingers, thick as bratwursts, trace invisible lines in the air, connecting disparate ideas. He mutters incantations—part incisive critique, part nonsensical gibberish—conjuring new worlds into existence.
He once stumbled upon a forbidden grimoire—an eldritch cookbook that promised recipes for immortality. The pages smelled of elderberries and existential dread. The Globglogabgalab licked his lips (or what passed for lips) and attempted the “Elixir of Infinite Curiosity.” Alas, it turned out to be a recipe for existential crisis, served with a side of ennui.
[Bridge] But the Globglogabgalab isn’t just a literary glutton. He yearns for connection—a fellow bibliophile to share his musings. He’s tried online book clubs, but alas, his Wi-Fi signal is weak in the subterranean depths. So, he composes love letters to fictional characters: “Dear Mr. Darcy, your brooding demeanor intrigues me. Let us rendezvous by the watercooler.”
And when the moon is full (or at least 80% waxing), he dances. His jig is a chaotic fusion of interpretive dance, interpretive literature, and interpretive breakfast cereal commercials. The mice scuttle along, clapping their tiny paws in rhythm. The dust motes pirouette. The forgotten plot twists cheer from the sidelines.
[Chorus] Shwabble dabble glibble glabble schribble shwap glab,
Dibble dabble shribble shrabble glibbi-glap shwap,
Shwabble dabble glibble glabble shwibble shwap-dap,
Dibble dabble shribble shrabble glibbi-shwap glab.
And so, dear listener, next time you’re lost in a book, remember the Globglogabgalab.
