Down in the delta where the moss hangs low, Cypress knees rise where the dark tides flow. Gator trails twist through the fog and grime, Roscoe rules in a realm lost to time. Logs float still, like ghosts in disguise, The king lies hidden ‘neath southern skies. He don’t roar, don’t chase or run, He strikes like thunder, and then it’s done. All hail the Swamp King, ruler of the mire, With jaws that snap like crackling fire. No crown of gold, no polished ring, Just teeth and stealth... he’s the Swamp King. Bullfrogs hush when his shadow looms, Herons lift off, feelin' the doom. He’s fed on snakes, turtles, even boars, Blood and bone behind those jaws of war. Locals speak soft of the king by name, Roscoe the Gator, carved into fame. He don’t need fire, he don’t need flight, The swamp bends low to his rule each night. All hail the Swamp King, cold-blooded and wise, With ancient might in his watchful eyes. No throne but mud, no court but fear, Step wrong once, and you disappear.
