#grobes

This poem may explain what they have been doing in their absence...

In the quelchy quaggy sogmire, In the mashy mideous harshland, At the witchy hour of gloomness, All the grobes come oozing home. 

You can hear them softly slimeing, Glissing hissing o'er the slubber, All those oily boily bodies Oozing onward in the gloam. 

So start to run! Oh, skid and daddle! Through the slubber slush and sossel! Skip jump hop and try to skaddle! All the grobes are on the roam!