“Oi! Flurmp” his beady plastic eyes
swivel and rotate independently,
like marbles caught in a roller,
as he belches a hello call.

“What you want, Crungle?”
a throaty reply full of swamp gas
and dirt juice, as they laze
on the shores of filth.

“Just thinking, how cool it is
to be a Boglin,” Crungle says,
elongated arms reaching into
bug ridden mud.

“Yeah, course, not like them
humans with all their worries,”
Flurmp laughs the sound of
fifty drains emptying their waste.

“Only thing I ever care about,
is where the mud is! Right there!”
Crungle joyfully sticks twig fingers
through the silt.

“It sure is good,” Flurmp sighs,
a sound so low, deep sea divers
receive it cautiously ,
suspected cousin of the bloop.