He dwells beneath
The mossy trees
He walks with a limp
And trips on cypress knees
He's eight feet tall
A dark shade of green
'Swamp Thing' they call him
He thinks that's kind of mean
Nobody loves him
They think it's just a phase
Nobody needs him
He's too stuck in his ways
Nobody minds him
He just likes it that way
Nobody finds him
He'll stay under for days
He lets out a roar
But it could be gas
His back is sore
From carrying all that wet grass
There's lumps on his head
He's losing his hair
He's hooked on meds
Cuz there's no one else to scare
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