"Ode to an Expiring Frog"
(inspired by Charles Dickens and a quote from Pickwick Papers)

An ode to sweet, departed Frog
Who, when alive, lived in a bog.
"Who, when alive?" What killed this bloak?
Alas, he choked on his own croak.

T'was once upon an August morn
Our hero sang out like a horn
Unto the sun in joy he sang
From in his throat, his deep voice rang

And when he heard his voice so sweet
He could but think that he should eat
The sound which from his throat had come
When he began to simply hum

Why should a tone so honey sweet
Be something that he could not eat?
It prob'ly would go well with ham
Perhaps instead some type of jam?

And so without another thought
Into the glistening lake he plopped
Sank down into the dank dark weeds
To get his jam out of the reeds

It was his favorite kind -A-grade
A splendid may fly marmalade!
He solemnly arrayed the pans
Unyielding in his lofty plans

So like Don Juan, with lover's grace,
He wrapped himself in tight embrace
Then, drawing out his lovely croak
He rolled it up fine-chopped oak

Not caring that he was de-throated
For joy! His voice was finely coated!
To makeshift kitchen he did fly
His luscious voice to deep-fat fry

And how his eyes did gleam and gloat
To watch his voice just bob and float
He looked just like his cousin, Toad,
(Who ne'er has yet been writ an ode).

Then, finally, his voice was done.
For Frog, the fun had just begun.
He grasped a nice green pair of tongs
Which had been made solely for frogs,

And pulled his voice out of the fat-
Beneath the old oak tree he sat.
And taking out his marmalade
A voice-jam treat he quickly made.

With one fond look, he popped it in
And chewed and chewed – to his chagrin
His voice was tougher than the man
Who lived five years off one tin can.

But still our hero would not budge
Until he'd chewed his voice to sludge.
He liked the may-fly flavored wood,
He liked his voice – it tasted good

Determinedly, he held his ground
His jaw went slowly up and down
At last a bit was soft enough
That he swallowed some of the stuff

It went down fine – or so he thought
But in his throat, his voice got caught
And folks, dear Froggy felt such pain
So that he slightly went insane.

With hands to throat he hopped around,
Quite desperate to get it down;
Op'ning his mouth, he tried to sing
And from his throat his voice to fling-

But nothing that he tried would work.
I tell you, then, he went berserk.
And yet his voice had stopped his breath.
Alas, our Frog did choke to death.

'Tis sad – the tale of Froggy's strife.
His vanity had cost his life.
What moral can we thus construe?
With all your food, make sure you chew.