There's a mad puppeteer, he's toiling in the swampsAnd a shack made of human bones and the puppets that he hauntsThey hang like crucifixions from their fraying threadsBut unlike the saints, these ones aren't deadDown, in the old bayouDown, in the old bayouDown where nightmares come true, in the old bayouOh, down in the old bayouThere's an alligator older than the French-Canadian WarEvery harvest moon he knocks at the puppet master's doorThe puppеt master feeds him all the blood of girls and boysThe gator's еyes are beating hearts; his scales are broken toysDown, in the old bayouDown, in the old bayouOh, down where nightmares come true, in the old bayouOh, down in the old bayouLocked in cold marionettesThose ruled by sweet voodooHe severs the soul from the flesh"Don't get lost, my childDon't get lost, my childNo, don't get lost, my childWalkin' in the old bayou!"
