Full moon’s risin’, air thick with dread, Whispering Waylon’s already in bed, dreams dancin’ in his head. Roscoe’s on the porch, still as night, The real show starts when out goes the light. Good ol’ Waylon hit the shine too hard, Hung up his hat in the old pine yard. The shack stands quiet, lantern dim, But the cypress knows, it’s time for them. From shadowed reeds and haunted bogs, Come creatures whispered in ancient logs. Eyes like lanterns, teeth like blades, Swamp born horrors from the Everglades. Monsters of the swamp, they crawl, they creep, While Waylon snores in shine-drenched sleep. Roscoe guards with a gator’s grin, Rolls of death ‘til none get in. Slithers from the roots, something hisses low, Wings slice silence like a ghostly crow. Roscoe waits, jaws tight with fate, Snaps a snake, then seals the gate. Fireflies dance in an arrowed line, Pointin’ to trouble on the foggy spine. Roscoe charges, no room for fear, One more monster disappears. Monsters of the swamp, they test their luck, But Roscoe’s there when things get stuck. Waylon dreams of love and song, Unaware all night long. Down in the bayou, legends sleep tight, Roscoe’s still watchin’ through the heat of night. Where monsters rise and shadows play, He guards the shack ‘til break of day.
