When it rains outside,
and their choirs grow,
while the crickets sing high,
the frogs sing low.

But where do they go when they're tucked in there beds?
And what are the voices they hear in their heads?
How loud are the screams that shatter the dreams?
And the sighs and the moans of the life in between?

And who gives them warts on their necks and and their hands?
Whose legs do they eat?
Whose fate do they meet?
And which prince will they kiss just to make him their own?
And where do they go when their frogging is done?

If I were you my little friends,
I'd make this vow to make amends,
with the green blood splattered on the cold road side,
and the twitching arms trying to stay alive...

Because from the dark there are eyes that peer,
and amphibious ears that are longing to hear,
of a hardened tongue and a wicked stare,
and the crooked hands that will lay a snare,
for the one who owns that-
sorrowless,
merciless,
cruel,
in-compassionate glare:
will find his end on a gondola,
while the night creatures doom him
to Frogola.