Frog's Breath Soup

I invited some neighbors from the neighborhood
to partake of my soup I asserted was good.
“Come to my table friends, and then we as a group
will let taste buds find ecstasy in frog’s breath soup!”

My soup spiel was not taken to heart by all folk
and in fact many thought it to be just a joke.
But my urging was good enough for seating eight
when I once again promised my soup would be great.

I explained how I first tried the eye of a newt,
plus the back of a toad thinking that would be cute.
Yet in truth it did not match the frog breath allure
that rose up from the pot when I gave it a stir.

So with ladle in tureen and seven dear souls,
I upturned frog’s breath soup into good china bowls.
And I watched as it wafted like odorous fog
into neighboring noses as essence of frog.

Major Harper was the first fine neighbor to leave;
when I looked at his face, it was frozen with grieve.
He made noises like he was immersed in a moat,
but in fact I think he had a frog in his throat.

Then old Harriett (who always relied on tact),
sipped the soup but then suffered a panic attack.
And right next to her, Elaine with manners extant,
took a taste but then started a whispering rant.

David Binder was game so he added some salt;
yet he put on the brakes and soup came to a halt.
When spry Donny put down his spoon and looked at me,
he looked like he had witnessed a Greek tragedy.

No one cared for my frog’s breath soup at my abode;
one by one each invited neighbor hit the road.
What was left of my soup I spilled outside one day,
and I found it kept all the mosquitoes away.


32 Lines (Anapestic tetrameter)
Writer’s Cramp
June 24, 2013