Bad Luck Frankie

God’s wartiest, slimiest toad
lay belly up near Palm Road,
innards misplaced, feeling disgraced,
wanting desperately not to be mowed.

Lawnmower’s motor grew louder.
Anyone fancy green chowder?
Passed was a truck; remaining, bad luck.
Many times he had been prouder.

No slicing or dicing occurred.
Our friend’s vision suddenly blurred.
Fully confounded, completely surrounded
by talons from one soaring bird.

Approaching gargantuan trees,
poor Frankie felt weak in the knees.
Threatening nests with baby hawk pests
didn’t bode well for his ease.

Ominous clouds started rumbling.
Then liberation, plummeting, tumbling
toward water, escaping slaughter,
yet drowning, all hopes crumbling.