I sprint away
From creeps that hark to dismember,
Slice off my bones,
Glaze legs they have winnowed; into heat then tote
Them to sauté, add some sauce for cuisine haute.

I am a frog,
I hop to islands.

The hilt falls;
With forces deep they knife me—
The cuts, they penetrate.
I have no need of Frenchship;
Frenchies have my name.
I laugh at them, those lunktêtes; I’ve no shame.

I am a frog,
I hop to islands.

Don’t talk of lunch;
It’s a word that I abhor. . .
Frenchmen eating on the legs of me.
I am disturbed when cut off,
The creepers by my side;
When they’re had at lunch,
The rest of me has died.

I am a frog,
I hop to islands.

I have my nooks,
And I hold my peeps to protect me,
But ain’t shielded. . .got no armor
Like a turtle’s “room,”
Thus I’m prone to doom.
I’m touchy when a honed one cuts up me.

I am a frog,
I’m snatched for slicin’.

Mad, a Frog squeals in pain—
He don’t like cuts—grêve, a strike.