We set off with our packs
On a fresh spring day
Skinny Pete and Marmaduke Cray
The Crawfish Twins and Fotherington Hey
And of course me!
All on the trail of the speartoothed Grock!
In the Purple Mountains
High above the Weeze
Where the hills are barren
With very few trees
The wind it howls through crack and cave
Only fit for the Grock and the very very brave.
And that’s me (at least I thought it was).
On the lower slopes we dined, and how
On black bread and ham and green spotted Trow
Fruit of the vine, berries and cheese
All washed down with vintage Weeze.
The air it grew thin as the group went higher
At night we clustered in cloaks round the fire
The howling Fulrack sang her song
A pitiful cry the whole night long.
We scaled the mountain with stealth and care
In the hope of finding the savage Grock’s lair
But we saw not a soul, nor sight nor sound
Not a tooth or a track or a bone could be found.
Cheer and hope soon turned to defeat
Despairing that we ever would meet
But not for long.
It’s the Grock, it’s the Grock
What a terrible sight
It crept up to the camp in the dark of the night
With slavering jaws and blood shot eyes
A shock of green hair all covered in flies
Razor sharp horns and teeth like knives
We grabbed our packs and ran for our lives
I daren’t glance back or look in its eyes
I scarpered and tumbled, stumbled and fell
To make it back home, my tale to tell
Of the fiercesome creature known as the Grock
The mere mention of which still leaves me in shock.
I lost my friends on the mountain that night
To that hideous beast, what a terrible sight
Never again will I traverse that rock
In the hope of finding the sabre toothed Grock.