[Intro – Marble Footsteps + Thunder]
[Cane tapping across stone floors]
Rich people in Louisiana don’t hide ghosts…
[Organ creeps in]
they decorate around ‘em.
⸻
[Verse 1]
🎶
Moss on the marble like time got lazy,
Whole mansion smell like power and daisies.
Crystal chandeliers over haunted dinners,
Everybody wealthy, nobody innocent.
Old money Southern with the cursed etiquette,
Smile polished but the bloodline delicate.
Granddaddy portraits stare from the wall,
Like they know exactly why empires fall.
I’m in a velvet chair with swamp intuition,
Drinkin’ bourbon aged like family secrets.
Flow so Gothic the beat need candles,
Every bar smell like expensive scandals.
Women glide slow in black silk gloves,
Talkin’ soft over jazz and distrust.
Everybody rich enough to hide they grief,
Still spiritually sinkin’ underneath.
🎶
⸻
[Hook – Choir + Strings]
🎶
Moss on the marble…
Still grow slow…
Over every secret buried below.
Moss on the marble…
Southern stain…
Beauty built beside old pain.
🎶
⸻
[Verse 2]
🎶
I seen senators pray with dirty hands,
Pastors movin’ like mob bosses.
Louisiana taught me one sacred thing:
wealth just trauma with better tailoring.
Now my suit fit sharp like survival instinct,
Gold cufflinks over inherited grief.
Even my confidence haunted elegant,
Like cemetery gates wrought in excellence.
My youngin asked:
“How you stay this calm?”
I told him:
“Swamp boys adapt to storms.”
Then lit another cigar in silence,
Watchin’ rain drip off stone lions.
The housekeeper whispered:
“This place cursed.”
I said:
“Nah… just honest about America.”
Then the thunder cracked through the ceiling hard,
Like the ancestors applaudin’ bars.
🎶
⸻
[Bridge – Spoken + Choir]
Every Southern dynasty got a graveyard attached.
Some just hide it better.
🎶
Spanish moss dance in the candle glow…
The dead still linger below.
🎶
⸻
[Verse 3]
🎶
Truth is—
money don’t erase decay.
It just teach ruin how to age gracefully.
That’s why these old estates feel strange at night,
Like luxury itself got stage fright.
And somewhere underneath all this gold,
The swamp still whisper:
“You can’t outrun your soul.”
So I write these verses like obituary art,
For everybody rich but spiritually starved.
🎶
⸻
[Final Hook – Full Orchestra + Choir]
🎶
Moss on the marble…
Rain still fall…
Even the mighty eventually crawl.
Moss on the marble…
Black water truth…
The South remember what you do.
🎶
⸻
[Outro – Thunder + Funeral Trumpet]
[Wine glass cracks softly]
Down here…
decay wear cufflinks too.
