The Crocalog, a fearsome beast.
He lies in wait, he thinks, at least
He’s lying down – of that he’s sure
He’s just not sure what he waits for.
He might be waiting for a train,
A seaside visit in the rain.
A journey to a distant place
To see a game or watch a race
He wondered once – when all things came
To who waits – if they’d be the same
as he had now. Oh, what a bore.
Would they be worth waiting for?
He might wait to be asked to dance
He’s sure he would – given a chance
This, however, we firmly state
The Crocalog, he lies in wait.