Install Steam
sign in
|
language
简体中文 (Simplified Chinese)
繁體中文 (Traditional Chinese)
日本語 (Japanese)
한국어 (Korean)
ไทย (Thai)
Български (Bulgarian)
Čeština (Czech)
Dansk (Danish)
Deutsch (German)
Español - España (Spanish - Spain)
Español - Latinoamérica (Spanish - Latin America)
Ελληνικά (Greek)
Français (French)
Italiano (Italian)
Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
Magyar (Hungarian)
Nederlands (Dutch)
Norsk (Norwegian)
Polski (Polish)
Português (Portuguese - Portugal)
Português - Brasil (Portuguese - Brazil)
Română (Romanian)
Русский (Russian)
Suomi (Finnish)
Svenska (Swedish)
Türkçe (Turkish)
Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
Українська (Ukrainian)
Report a translation problem




🎵 “Springfield After Dark-ish (But Still TV Safe)” 🎵
In Springfield town on a crooked street,
Homer chased donuts with powdered feet,
“Mmm… forbidden frosting,” he muttered with glee,
While tripping over Marge’s tall hair accidentally.
Marge stirred stew with a nervous twitch,
Blue beehive humming like a haunted fridge,
“Now Homer please,” she sighed through clenched teeth,
As the oven screamed lyrics in perfect E-flat beneath.
Bart skateboarded past with a devilish grin,
Pranks stacked so high they were leaking sin,
He glued down chairs and rewrote the signs,
“Eat my shorts” echoed in thirteen languages, nine.
Lisa blew sax till the walls felt smart,
Notes punching holes straight into Bart’s heart,
She lectured the room on jazz and despair,
While everyone nodded, confused but aware.