(sonnet # CCCXLIII)
I've heard 'tis said, in cooking frog, to do
It nice and slow; before he is aware,
Lest he escape, to start in cold; from there
The heat is gently raised, 'til without clue
He fades away, in downy warmth his few
Remaining minutes and life close fore'er.
Sans pain of knowing, fright, vain flight, all care
Quite banished, his demise unfolds, in stew?
And thus we likewise lose so much by guise
Of subtle ruin. Ere we can cry "foul play!"
We seal our doom by varied schemes; with lies
Dear subterfuge we traipse to our decay
With ease? If only Truth might ope our eyes,
Improve what time we've left, lest death dismay.
26Nov11
D24