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The swamp so thick it swallows night.
Bravado’d men, their guns in sight
to float the gators’ backsides down
while plodding on with progress slight.

They ope and drink the bottled Crown
‘midst failing beams, sun-slipping down.
The swamp goes dead, then mighty splash!
One glimpses tail and shares the frown.

Those drunken fools in hurried dash
bring guns to bear; but oh, alas,
their aim is poor and not their fright
as Croc turns tears and brains to mash.

Croc drags the boat through silent night
and parks what’s left by barrel-light.
Within the shack, cries of delight,
“Hey Pa! He wants ’em fried tonight!”