It seems he has come to his end
Squashed by the wheels that spun over him
They say his better days
lay at his toes
No one now turns a page to see or disclose

No longer do his words go pop
Now that he can no longer hop
It's as it is I suppose
For the dead poet squashed on the road

The analytical is now over
Nothing left but for the spirits to hover
While not a (Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road)
Time has now come for the Yellow Brick Toad

Ribbit . . . . Ribbit . . . Ribbit

. . . . .  Ribbit . . . . Ribbit . . . .

Someday everyone

has to croak .


. . . . . . . . . . RIBBIT . . . . . . . .