the caney, the toad, a poem. another origin lost. bad poetry.
- you think I’m kidding, fodderchild? – I’m on your pillow.
~ Here that gutteral mumbling
that muted foreign uproar
that song of frogs
here their mighty emperor
~ Watch the creeping tide
emerge
from that black and slimy deep
as every nightmare we know
outlives our transit sleep
~ Here comes the poison toad
that assassin
that ugly fucking creep
~ Give me fire
give me a club
give me the freedom
to smack the ugly bastard
back to his depthless keep
~
How I dream of those early days
when frogs were pure and clean
and we all laughed and played
where all was pure and green
~ So begone you poison toads
with your moneyhungry greed
the day is fast becoming
when that road south you would travel
turns to mud and
bitter feed
One Comment
Post a comment
That’s a dandy one there Pete.