The old man in the black fur coat
is calling,
for those with restless hearts
to ramble,
down into deep green valleys,
through brier bush tangles
and black berry brambles.

The old man in the black fur coat
is calling,
in a low rolling rumble,
his voice an uneasy gravelly grumble,
echoeing up from the river bottoms,
where reed and vine grow
rough and tumble.

The old man in the black fur coat
is calling,
in a language that outwits the withering years
and escapes the modern ear.
Standing on two legs,
with berry stained lips and a fish scale grin,
the flesh of the rainbow
hangs in his beard.