Little boy standin’ by the side of the road,
Lookin’ down beside hisself in the gutter at a dirty old toad,
What was sittin’ there all covered in dust with its eyes slowly flickin’
Looking for lunch, the boy, he did so suppose,
A guest to share the moment the frog surely did propose,
some fly, might be, for itself to go on chewin’ and lickin’,
Snatch that movin’ black spot clean outta the sky.
The little boy wondered what it would be like to die,
All caught up in a gooey tangle of tongue curlin’ there and stickin’
Like a June bug buzzin’ past fat and sassy like,
Not knowin’ that old bull frog was about to strike
Or maybe a crawler with its legs all a kickin’.
What matters most, I do suppose, is what the kid wasn’t thinkin’
Why did he feel such a sense of bein’ so old
Standin’ there all by hisself by the side of the road?