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 

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It's not a family trait,
it's nothing that I ate,
and it didn't come from skating with Holy Rollers,

It's an early warning sign,
it keeps my life in line,
but it's so hard to define,
Nevermind...

(Chorus)
It's just a spirit thing,
it's just a holy nudge,
it's like a circuit judge in the brain.
It's just a spirit thing,
it's here to guard my heart,
it's just a little hard to explain.

It pushes when i quit,
it smells a counterfit,
Sometimes it works a bit like a teleprompter...

When it's telepromting you,
I pray you'll let it


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