Old Bayou

There’s a mad puppeteer, he’s toiling in the swamps
And a shack made of human bones and the puppets that he haunts
They hang like crucifixions from their fraying threads
But unlike the saints, these ones aren’t dead
Down, in the old bayou
Down, in the old bayou
Down where nightmares come true, in the old bayou
Oh, down in the old bayou
There’s an alligator older than the French-Canadian War
Every harvest moon he knocks at the puppet master’s door
The puppt master feeds him all the blood of girls and boys
The gator’s yes are beating hearts; his scales are broken toys
Down, in the old bayou
Down, in the old bayou
Oh, down where nightmares come true, in the old bayou
Oh, down in the old bayou
Locked in cold marionettes
Those ruled by sweet voodoo
He severs the soul from the flesh
«Don't get lost, my child
Don’t get lost, my child
No, don’t get lost, my child
Walkin' in the old bayou!»