A summer night in Mississippi,
Spent in Coldwater Bottoms,
Down gravel roads and cotton rows,
And places long forgotten.
The fragrance of magnolia blossoms,
Drifts sweetly thru the air.
Willow trees dance eerily,
Old hoot owls stop and stare.
Soft breezes through the cypress trees,
Bring whispers on their wings,
As fire flies twinkle, like the stars,
And crickets start to sing.
Cross river beds and copperheads,
The fog begins to creep,
Into the lonely graveyard,
They call, Coldwater Creek.
Old, cast, iron gates creak, as they sway,
Into a field of crumbling stones,
Whose carvings have all weathered,
Left now, to be unknown.
The ground is soft and hallow.
Step lightly or you’ll fall,
Into a pit of dust and bones,
And creepy things that crawl.
The stillness of the night air
Is ripped into a shred,
As the bobcat makes his presence known,
With a scream that wakes the dead.
Underneath the midnight moon,
Shadows dance to unheard tunes.
Chills run frantic down your spine,
As darkness settles with the dew.
A heaviness lies on you.
You can barely catch your breath,
As the leaves around you flutter,
And wrap you up in death.
A summer night in Mississippi,
Spent in Coldwater Bottoms,
Down gravel roads and cotton rows,
And places long forgotten.
