“If’n the skeeters don’ get ya, then the ‘gators will!”
“Livin’ in a swamp is a consummate thrill.”
So said Slimey Pete, the swamp man,
As he put much energy into waving his fan.
“An’ then there’s always them constricting snakes,”
“Absolutely huge, muscular “Joe Blakes”.”
“Dengue fever, Malaria as well,”
“All sorts of things to make you feel unwell.”
“I could tell you a tale or two,”
“But, ‘cos we don’t see no folks, we don’t get the ‘flu!”
Slimey Pete had lived in the swamp all his life.
A peaceful existence, not too much strife.
But all of the other inhabitants of the swamp,
Seemed hell-bent on delivering a sting, bite or chomp.

Slimey Pete, living in the Bayous of Louisiana,
Could speak Choctaw, while eating a banana.
“Some people do question my personal hygiene,”
“But I wash in the Swamp, keep nice and clean.”
“Unlike sock wearing folk, my feet never smell,”
“And, in swamp water, I wash ‘em so well.”
“But they get leeches clinging, and, oh, dear,”
“They certainly do feel mighty queer!”
“Some years ago, there, in Oke Fenoke’,”
“I met up with a lass with a nose quite poky.”
“She looked at me hard, then juicily sniffed,”
“Turning away, as though, perhaps, miffed.”
“But, Oh, my goodness, Elmer Fudd,”
“It’s a treat to beat your feet in that Mississippi mud!”
“She was the original hootin’ Annie,”
“We laughed so loud when she fell on her fanny!”
“It was all that mud, and lots of clay.”
“A funny thing that, it kinda made our day!”