Bullfrog drinking by a stream;
Talking as if in a dream.
Cocktail hour has arrived;
Looks like she has survived.
To talk about others she has no shame;
No mirrors then to take the blame.
For if she took one long, long look;
She would see the book;
About ugly faces;
lack of graces.
The old bullfrog sits and sings;
of birdie friends and other things.
She sends her barking way off tune;
Like some warped and ugly balloon.
It floats above her swamp and home,
Over hills and dales, it will roam.
Our ears will shrivel up in pain
and not one friend will remain.
She has no way to see
the way she turned out to be.
Vicious and profane
Nothing will remain
Of a soul.