The Frog King
The frog king, enthroned on his stump in the swamp,
Throatily cheered the processional romp.
The dragonflies darted and buzzed overhead,
And kept at safe distance the pink tongue of dread.
A midge lay sobbing right there at his feet,
“Cheer up, a smidge bigger, you’d make a nice treat!”
Then, quick, his tongue darted, long, juicy and fat,
An inglorious end to a much bigger gnat.
Butterflies in formation gave homage to him,
But one swooped too low, and was torn limb from limb.
The carnage continued throughout the long day;
The damp air was gloomy and heavily weighed.
But then, on the water, a leaf in plain view,
Came floating downstream; it was occupied, too.
An unlikely pair, you would have to agree:
A blood-sucking tick and a wee, tiny flea.
They’d banded together, implausible friends
To stop all the mayhem or see their own end.
Their predicament dire, they stood resolute,
Determined together to bring down the brute.
Unnoticed, they floated as close as they could,
A giant oak leaf down a creek through the woods.
Then, catching an eddy, the edge of the swirl,
They changed their direction, and toward the brute hurled.
The leaf ran aground, and the flea wished good luck;
The tick replied, “Either way, this will soon suck!”
Past salamand sentries, they silently crawled,
The frog king above them, engorged and enthralled.
Then, there at the base, they began their ascent.
The tick inhaled deep; she was on the brute’s scent.
The plan: that the flea would alert and distract;
At an opportune moment, the tick would attack.
The flea from below, and the tick from above:
They parted; the tick said, “Return to me, love!”
They say fortune favors the strong and the brave;
The frog king lay comatose, near his midge slave.
It seems that his majesty overindulged:
Broken wings on his lips, a belly that bulged.
They signaled his captive: stay calm, remain still.
Then, steeling their nerves, they moved in for the kill.
And although his chance of success was quite thin,
The flea bounded high, landed on that rough skin.
The frog king awoke, and he slapped at his mouth;
The flea had locked on just a bit to the south.
He only had seconds before he’d get whacked,
Those pudgy, fat arms, wildly swung, made contact.
The moments were fleeting; the tick's movements slow,
And unlike the flea, she’d a long way to go.
She crawled up his back to the base of his brain,
And then, she clamped tight; that’s where she would remain.
And now the frog roared and abandoned the flea,
But she could not be dislodged so easily.
Releasing her poison, she hung on for life;
The flea jumped to safety, admiring his wife.
The toxin now working, he started to seize.
The air felt less heavy; in blew a fresh breeze.
The frog king, now dead; the swamp, joyful and gay.
The flea and the tick: king and queen for the day.
—————
for the Anything Goes Poetry Contest
sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose
Copyright © Jeff Kyser | Year Posted 2022
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