Wine?
You ask.

Cork or
Twist top?
Bag or Box?

Can I have a beer?

An army of frogs looked on,
Their tongues darting, throats bulging.

Belching out frog speak, they were
Wishing for kisses or at least a licking.


When you do the right thing,
You always do wrong by someone.

Not an insect in sight you see,
Frogs are their plight.

And I, well, I sell their legs
To dozens of eateries.

My fine mesh net scoops up the officers,
Their eyes, tearing up, their troops follow suit.

I'm counting my way back to town.
I got a **** load of frogs.. a **** load of legs.