Down in the swamp old stills are hiding,
Just from the likes of us, me and of you.
Even froggies there do so love their ale,
Their wine, and all special toddies, too.
At night, when a moon is big and bright,
Is that time down there of so much fun.
A big problem with all the drinking, then,
Is from a hungry gator, forgetting to run.
Those old folks there each used to drink,
While they were brewing up their mash.
Then one-night all pandemonium struck,
When a big ol lightning bolt hit like a flash.
That liquor still had been all but destroyed,
The old-timers all decided to up and leave.
They'd just find themselves a nice new spot,
Was not any reason to pout and all to grieve.
The froggies, gators, possums, and skunks,
Were so happy, all just siping of that brew.
Most were smart enough, each taking care,
Not too many drank that old swamper's dew.
They had watched the brewers getting drunk,
All seeing just how bad each one did behave.
They knew better than to spoil their appetites,
Not a "Here lies a drunk" etched on their grave.
One day they decided to get rid of the stills,
Now all sit empty, just rusting in the shade.
No one drinks that swampy brew anymore,
Were now so happy with choices they made.
Wise old owls, otters, squirrels, and raccoons,
Now live free there, all do thrive in that swamp.
Alcohol took a toll on the earlier folks back then,
Where those big old gators all still like to romp.