The frog, a maiden\\\'s lament




If only I could love a frog

Maybe my dreams would all come true

And then my hairy suitors who

Come calling, I could give the dog.


If only I could hug and squeeze

That nasty thing, with bulbous eyes

And funny skin, that we despise,

That scares and causes us unease.


A frog, you see, is not a thing

That readily endears itself

To man nor beast, unless its wealth

Is double that of duke or king.


Then are its charms so evident

That everybody shouts 'A star!

He is the smartest frog by far!

He is a frog quite provident!


'His monocle is such a whizz,

His ear-ring a true spectacle,

His talk quite dialectical,

There is no banter quite like his.


'He is a very prodigy,

A frog of wit and boundless sense,

He makes us laugh, his talk is dense,

Replete with anthropology.


'I cannot say I ever met

A frog of such great intellect

He is a very architect

Of monumental stature, yet



'He's modest to a point, what's more,

Can speak three languages outright.

His eye, so quick, so keen, so bright

Can pierce a person to the core.


'You won't believe how quick he is

In catching flies and fish and worms

I cannot really find the terms

To list the talents that are his.'


Alas, the frog can go his ways,

His wealth, though great is not enough,

His stocks and shares and all that stuff

Do not suffice, though they amaze


The poorer sort. I am not such;

My needs are hypothetical,

And sometimes mathematical;

What's more, I cannot bear his touch.


  • Author: tundrol (Offline Offline)
  • Published: March 17th, 2020 08:59
  • Comment from author about the poem: The frog, of course, might always turn out to be a prince, and vice versa. PS he sends his love and kisses to everybody.
  • Category: Humor
  • Views: 18
  • User favorite of this poem: Echo Seeker.
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  • Saxon Crow

    Sorry T i'm going to burst this bubble with one name.... kermit!

    • tundrol

      Ah, yes. I was forgetting about the modern world. I am working on sixteenth century texts at the moment, which probably explains my obsession with sonnets and the like. The closest I have been to the twentieth century recently is Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll.

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