['During the great kissing epidemic of 1383 a great many
maidens were deceived.']
The frog is kissed,
remains a frog,
she screams, 'you lied, you lied!'
He slithers, un-charming, down the tower's spiral stairs.
She hurtles the golden ball, rough-dented. Missing,
it heavily rolls to the courtyard below.
'It takes time,' the frog retorts, shouting up;
'I'll be back to train the babies,
the dear little pollywogs, you will like them,
I promise. They'll be no trouble.
Each one shall wear a crown
and our escutcheon will find fame
throughout all the ponds of the land.'
Such was his marvellous proficiency of voice,
this doyen of deals; his cogent proposals;
the enchanting expostulations of his plans.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Clive Donovan would be
pleased to hear them.