Stacey Grove
Stacey Grove he's a roaming prophet of mine,
Hat full of wine.
Stacey Grove he's a roving catcher of skies,
Forecaster of eyes, so no lies.
Dungaree dome is decked like a pagan temple to Zeus
He drinks acorn juice.
Roasting his feet by the furnace of peat,
He roars at the boars who massively sleep at his feet.
Antelope head his beard skylark red
Is tucked 'neath the good of his summer sun hood.
And now that the gate of his evening is late
He sits on a log picking ticks off the back of his dog.
Oh he's a nice cat
Stacey Grove
Stacey Grove es un profeta errante mío,
Sombrero lleno de vino.
Stacey Grove es un cazador errante de cielos,
Adivino de ojos, sin mentiras.
Su cúpula de overol está decorada como un templo pagano a Zeus,
Él bebe jugo de bellota.
Tostando sus pies junto al horno de turba,
Ruge a los jabalíes que duermen masivamente a sus pies.
Cabeza de antílope, su barba roja como una alondra,
Está escondida bajo el bien de su capucha de sol de verano.
Y ahora que la puerta de su tarde es tarde,
Se sienta en un tronco quitándole garrapatas a su perro.
Oh, es un buen tipo