Standard

The swamp ain’t kind
to a stranger at night,
and it counts not
a single friend.

Forget the spirit
of god, child;
what moves upon
the face of the water
is tooth and claw,
venom and fang.

And my pickin’-the-mandolin,
snake-handlin’ girl
is speaking in tongues
and drunk on the dark.

The cypress trees have
swallowed the stars;
she’ll feed me to the
black water tonight.