At the pond

The frog sat on his lily pad
and took a look around.
At this time of the morning there
was hardly any sound.

Just cars out on a distant road,
he hears as they pass by.
Some people who were in a rush.
He had to wonder why.

The pond that this here frog calls home
was quiet in the dark.
Nobody comes before sunlight
to amble in the park.

The frog likes this time best of all.
He likes to be alone.
He drinks a sip of coffee as
he chews his buttered scone.

Yeah, life is calm and simple here.
The frog gets lost in thought.
But soon the weather would get bad;
the days were getting short.

He snaps out of his reverie.
Something has caught his eye.
The frog puts down his coffee cup
and lets out a big sigh.

It was that friendly fisherman
that stops here every day.
He’s never caught a single fish
and never will that way.

Although he brought a fishing pole,
a bobber and a hook,
he just sits by the water’s edge
and then pulls out a book.

He never puts bait on the hook;
that rod is just for show.
He just pretends he uses it;
no one would ever know.

THE FROG…

It’s getting brighter in the east,
now light enough to see.
That guy sits writing poetry
And reads his rhymes to me.

He’s told me I’m the only one
who listens to his poems.
They don’t appreciate his work,
not when he reads at home.

So I give him some coffee and
we share a scone or two.
And we sit there and have a chat
the way most couples do.

I try to be polite to him
as any frog would be.
I listen to those awful poems
that he recites to me.

No wonder no one likes his stuff
when he reads it at home.
A frog like me who only croaks
could write a better poem.

But every morning we sit here,
have coffee and a scone.
I’ll listen to his dreadful poems
so he won’t feel alone.

THE FISHERMAN…

This frog keeps eating buttered scones;
he’s getting awfully fat.
So pretty soon I’ll take him home
and feed him to my cat.

I’ve been so patient every day
to make this frog my friend,
but I can’t write one more dumb poem.
This act has got to end.

Gotcha…
Croak!