Met the Big Bad Wolf once down in New Orleans.
He had an alligator on a leash, said his name was Swamp Thing.
We hit it off and the whiskey started to flow.
It was a wild night, fueled with good times and bad decisions.
The next morning, I awoke in a seedy motel room on the wrong side of town.
Couldn’t remember a damn thing, had the mother of all hangovers, and blood was everywhere.
I was also wearing a wolf pelt suit and gator-skin boots.
Moral of the story?
Hell, I don’t know, but I dig these new threads.
Feel a little bad for poor Swamp Thing, he didn’t deserve that.
But the wolf…
he was kind of an asshole.