adventures in dysthymia

Saturday, June 11, 2011

The King Must Sing

A call from the Great, Grand High Frog
brought all, to the least polliwog,
before his throne, high on a log,
for he was the King of the Bog.

The King blinked his big, bulging eyes,
announcing, to each frog's surprise,
'I'm tired of just catching flies
or sitting up here looking wise.

'It's time that I act like a king,
and I know exactly the thing:
a leader's voice surely should ring,
so someone must teach me to sing!'

No, frogs cannot actually frown,
but some of their mouths did turn down;
they even asked 'What's with this clown?
His head is too big for his crown!'

For this task appealed to no one,
with most frogs preferring to shun
all work and just sit in the sun --
they're lazy sorts, when all is done.

One little tad finally spoke,
'Your Highness must certainly joke.
You already have a fine croak
and don't need the help of we folk.'

'Oh yes,' all agreed eagerly,
'You must set your royal voice free!'
and puffed him up with flattery,
so now the King sings constantly.

They soon recognized their mistake --
his bellowing made the swamp shake;
it wavered and often would break.
All night long he kept them awake.

They raised no more hale froggy cheers,
they cried in their cold froggy beers,
for his singing quickly brought tears
to frog eyes and even frog ears.

He wheezed like a broken down bus,
it couldn't be more hideous,
and led to a great froggy fuss.
Why, some even started to cuss!

But what can one do but just sigh
and live with what comes of a lie?
The Great, Grand High Frog sings on high --
the other frogs? They must get by!

Stephen Brooke ©2011

So, maybe a half or so of this was written out some years ago, maybe around 2005. Sat down and finished it this morning, with a few revisions of what was already there. Not what one would be inclined to call deep and meaningful poetry!

Written in strict trimeter, by the way.

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