THE BALLAD OF BITFOOT In the pines where the fog forgets its name, Where the trail cams blink and the moss grows tame, There walks a shape that the ranger can't place, Eight feet of legend with a blurry face. Oh Bitfoot, Bitfoot, big and bold, Ten thousand blurry photos, none of them told The whole of your story, the half of your stride, You're a rumor with footprints, and nothing to hide! He's been "just out of frame" since nineteen-sixty-seven, A shaky-cam shadow, a hairy-armed heaven. Hikers swear they saw him, then swear they did not, Then post it at 2 a.m. and swear it a lot. Oh Bitfoot, Bitfoot, big and bold, Ten thousand blurry photos, none of them told The whole of your story, the half of your stride, You're a rumor with footprints, and nothing to hide! Now they say he's a hodler, he never has sold, Sits on his mountain, ten thousand years old. Diamond hands? Friend, the man's got diamond paws, And he's never once paid a single gas fee, because... He lives off the grid. Off every grid. No wallet, no seed phrase, no lost-keys bid. The only thing he's ever put on a chain Is a pinecone necklace in the Cascade rain. Oh Bitfoot, Bitfoot, big and bold, Still unminted, unlisted, uncontrolled, The one true rare that no one could trace, 1 of 1... and he's hiding his face. @BITFOOTS_