Lay Grouter, Six For Fingers

And there hid with the angel upon his old throne

And asked why the angel was grey

And the angel replied with a twitch of his wing

That the Preacher had made him that way

I was painted, said the angel, and put on this throne

Like a statue set high on his roof

For if there’s one thing that the Preacher despise

It’s something as awkward as proof

And if then young Grouter would see to the chains

He’d then have a word with Messiah

For something as worthy as freeing an angel

Was doubtless worth Grouter’s desire

But if only for the moment, his desire had changed

He had escaped from the switch by a nose

And though soon he was sure his needs would return

At the moment his wish was for clothes

But he set free the angel by breaking the lock

Of the chains that held him in place

With a pick that he made from the end of his wing

And a jemmy of what remained of his grace

With a flash and a crack and a thunderous roar

Grouter was once more a dandy

His rags and his boots and now a chain for a belt

(It was just what the Master had handy).

And the angel declared that if Grouter agreed

He would accompany him for a while

For the Preacher was already entering his house

And his wife had a wicked, wet smile

So the pair left the roof and the angel suggested

That they call on a friend called the Boffin

And as an aside, though the Preacher then died

They never could get the lid on his coffin.