A mournful frog in a meadow bog
Croaks of love and sin.
It's evident this macontent
Is troubled deep within.
If you are old you hear him scold
The tadpoles in the pond
That spend the night in coy delight
On lilypad and frond.
But if, forsooth, you still have youth,
You know that he himself
Is out to woo some errant shrew
Elusive as an elf.
How like the frog--man's monologue
In this strange habitat
Is yes and no or may be so
Or blend of this and that.
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