Stacey Grove he's a roaming prophet of mine,
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Hat full of wine.
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Stacey Grove he's a roving catcher of skies,
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Forecaster of eyes, so no lies.
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Dungaree dome is decked like a pagan temple to Zeus
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He drinks acorn juice.
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Roasting his feet by the furnace of peat,
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He roars at the boars who massively sleep at his feet.
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Antelope head his beard skylark red
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Is tucked 'neath the good of his summer sun hood.
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And now that the gate of his evening is late
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He sits on a log picking ticks off the back of his dog.
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Oh he's a nice cat
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Stacey Grove
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| T.Rex |
