Stacey Grey a gypsy moth

Flying close to a flame

She said I’m going to where I have to go

The desert calls my name

With her horse and old dog, Ringo

She went to tame her land

She merged like a chameleon

Into the colours of Texas sand

–

It was a state and half away

Three hundred acres and a shack

I went to see her once

She said she won’t be coming back

–

CH

Stacey Grey was meant for things

She had hope and plans, she had wings

She had a winning smile

She lived freestyle

And I just can’t forget her.

Though it’s been a while

–

I found a message on my phone

It chilled me to the bone

Stacey whispered low and fast

She wasn’t home alone

Three guys, in an old black truck

Had arrived real late that day

They looked like hungry predators

And she was feeling like their prey

–

A plume strung out behind

my dust-patina coated Ford

Eleven hours of driving

I was a tightly knotted cord

Eyes squinting as the state sign

Appeared like a mirage

It was a Sunday in West Texas

Fate was loomin’ large

–

I drove a straight Iine down to Stacey’s

A clean horizon with no life

‘Cept an old black pick-up truck

That went past on ‘55

–

CH

I found her door still open

A stabbing pain went through my head

I found her battered body

Ringo whimpered in a shed

It’s an age old story

‘Bout bad that comes at night

but I found a ripped off earlobe

She hadn’t given up without a fight

–

On the road to vengeance

Fifty six miles of gravel

My beat-up dusty Ford

could take on the very devil

In a truck stop in Oklahoma

Pouring stories over beer

I found the three black-truck boys

And one had a severed ear

–

In tales and all old westerns

The hero always beats the rest

Though life just ain’t a story

And I’m a small guy at best

But I had a shotgun in my hand

And Ringo knew the score

We kept our eyes upon those guys

And beckoned them to the door

–

CH

–

She loved being a rancher

Lived a full life everyday

But them trucking boys had taken that

There was nothing more to say

I stood still with Ringo

The old dog licked my hand

We buried my cowgirl sister

By an old tree on her land.

–

In the dusty hills, half a state away

Some boys had struck bad luck

The cops had found three bodies

in a burnt-out old black truck.

–

CH

–

Copyright: Rod de Lisle