Muddled Beginnings

The gentle croaks of the mild frog

Flowed through air and screamed through fog.

'Twas jagged yet fluid,

To be understood just by a druid.

"Wherefore amst I a toad?

I swim through water and walk by road.

Would seem I were a happy being,

Too oft I shan't be basket-weaving."

The echoed cries bounced to and fro,

Not all were singing, that is so.

A mother, it seemed, was distraught.

Her smaller babes she had sought.

"Tadpoles, hi! Tadpoles, ho!

Where are you now? I want to know.

The light hath faded, o so dim,

Where is your father? I called for him."

Then outright a ribbit sounded.

"A man is come, and us he's founded.

Fly you fools, and shut thine traps.

Frog legs he seeks, and logs he raps.

A fine woven net, he doth have,

His teeth do yearn to taste a calve."

At this all sounds were quickly ceased,

The frogs had fled as though were greased.

Where was I in all this mess?

Simply, gone to see Loch Ness.

I'd flown the coop; was on my own.

Left my mother, I was grown.

With brand new legs I did scuttle.

Looked around, and found a puddle.

Rested there for many days,

My homeland swamp was just a haze.

My tail had shrunk, was just a stubble.

With my mouth, could make a bubble.

For sooth, 'twas I my mom cried for,

The missing pollywog, evermore.