Black water under cypress shade, Old stories never wash away. Gators turn, the birds fly low, Everybody knows where not to go. Some say John still walks at night, Some say he just left our sight. Truth gets lost, but legends grow, Rooted deep where the moss hangs low. Big John ain’t waiting in the swamp no more, Still hear his name from the old store door. One man leaves, but the story don’t. Maybe he’s gone. Maybe he ain’t. Where the moss still grows. Where the moss still grows. Sheriff’s badge beneath the mud, Twelve-gauge shells and crimson floods. Every year the tale gets strange, New mouths talk, but the name don’t change. Some roads end. Some circle home. Some men wander farther than we know. So if you hear something past the trees, Don’t call it a ghost too easily. Big John ain’t waiting in the swamp no more, Still hear his name from the old store door. One man leaves, but the story don’t. Maybe he’s gone. Maybe he’ll show. Where the moss still grows. Where the moss still grows. Maybe there never was a monster. Maybe he just walked too far. Either way, the swamp remembers who you are. Big John ain’t waiting in the swamp no more, But the swamp ain’t what it was before. Take what you made wherever you go, We’ll keep some here where the moss still grows. And if that road ever circles home, You know where to go. Black water rolls. Cypress bends. One story ends. ____________ Unless it don't.
