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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
  1. Rusty Steele #

    That’s a dandy one there Pete.

    July 11, 2011

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