Circle of the Lesser Verses

The Frogs

The frogs are croaking in the yard.
Their throats are hoarse.  They've sung for hours.
"Ninety-nine droplets of dew on the lawn,"
they sing, "ninety-nine droplets of dew.
Take one sip, then wipe your lip,
ninety-eight droplets of dew on the lawn..."
they must be drunk, or stoned on grass.
If they kept a rhythm, I'd sleep,
perhaps to dream of railway journeys,
but each must croak to his own drum,
and sing his own off-key notes.
Some claim their chorus marks their turf,
others say they sing for mates.
I'm wakeful, plotting frogicide.

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Updated last on:  2001/05/24