The Frog and the Bucket

The frog wriggled out
of the pocket deep
as the boy who put him there
lay fast asleep.
Dried out
and badly in need of a drink,
he hopped through the straw,
found a place he could think.
Far below him
from the loft so high,
he could see out the door
to his pond and the sky.
He leapt without thinking--
'twas a long way to fall--
landed, plop in a bucket
still not safe at all.

It was full of milk,
not the water he craved
and its sides were too slippery--
would he ever be saved?
He swam and he wriggled,
he finned and he frogged,
he was getting quite tired
and very milk-logged.
Still he kept on swimming
back and forth and around
in hopes that there somewhere
was a wee patch of ground.

All night he swam and
flipped his webbed feet,
though his legs were weary
and he was beat.
For if he rested
for too long at a stretch
he'd start to sink
so more energy he'd fetch.
He could hear the cows chewing
and the dog by the house
and just imagined the thoughts
in the mind of his spouse!

He had to get out.
There just must be a way.
So he breast-stroked and paddled
Until the next day.
He refused to give up,
not Phineas T Frog
as he sucked in some air
and floated like a log.
Course that only lasted
a moment or so
and he was back to swimming to and fro.

So what is the point
of my story you cry,
Did he ever get out
or give up and die.
There must be something--
I hear you mutter.
Yes, he greeted the day
on a fat pad of butter.

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