Notes About The Poem
Growing up in the East Texas Piney Woods, I encountered many things around ponds; frogs, insects, animals, etc. A crazy thought came to me about bullfrogs and mayflies and came to the conclusion that you cannot negotiate with a predator’s true nature.
The Mayfly’s Last Pitch
Deep in the tangle of the Piney Woods,
Where East Texas brush does just what it should—
All choked up with yaupon, sweetgum, and briar,
Sinking down in the muck like a truck on a tire—
Right there on a log in his muddy domain,
Sat a creature so ugly it drove him insane.
A bullfrog, gargantuan, bloated and green,
With six crooked legs. The strangest thing ever seen.
Four of those legs were for making him hop,
While two extra appendages dangled out top.
He’d puff out his throat like a leathery sack,
To make every toad in the county fall back.
Then he’d suck in the heat and let loose a groan,
That rattled the cypress and shook the limestone:
“CROOOAAAK—BURP!”
He sat for a second, then cleared his wet throat,
To explain the rough text of that swamp-gasping note.
“Ahem,” barked the frog with a slick little grin,
“That first part just meant, ‘Hey, look what a state I am in.’
And that burp at the end? Well, to be entirely frank...
I just swallowed a beetle that was shiny and stank.”
Right then, from the shade of an old birch limb,
A pretty young mayfly buzzed down toward him.
She fluttered her wings with a soft, easy glow,
And dropped on the log just to give it a go.
She looked at that frog, so massive and wide,
With three pairs of knees tucked up tight to his side.
“Oh, Mr. Frog!” the mayfly did chime,
“The world is a wonder, and life is sublime!
The wind in the thicket, the mist on the lawn.
Life is a beautiful, marvelous gift,
Meant to inspire us, to heal, and uplift!”
While she pitched her big sermon on how good things could be,
The frog’s mind slipped off into dark fantasy.
He stared at her wings, so crunchy and neat,
And thought, “Lord Almighty, she looks good to eat.”
His yellow eyes rolled completely around,
As a thick string of drool splatted onto the ground.
He was dreaming of mayfly, sautéed up or raw—
When WHACK! down came a branch from a hickory claw.
The stick caught his noggin—a miserable blow—
That knocked his mind back to the business below.
“Ouch!” rubbed the frog with his fifth leg in pain,
Shaking the thoughts of a snack from his brain.
“You’re right!” gasped the frog. “Life’s a beautiful prize!
Let’s talk about wisdom, and stars, and the skies!”
So there on the wood in the suffocating heat,
The two of them talked, and the talking was sweet.
They hit on old destiny, nature, and art,
And bonded right down to the depths of the heart.
They swore they’d be buddies, the closest of friends,
The kind of connection that never quite ends.
The fly was just thrilled, and the frog felt a spark—
Two lonely souls making sense of the dark.
But a bullfrog’s a bullfrog, deep down in his skin,
No matter how many strange legs he walks in.
Her wings gave a twitch, so transparent and bright,
And his belly just screamed for a bite in the night.
He tried to resist it, tried thinking of her soul,
But a wild, heavy hunger took total control.
Before he could think of the crime or the guilt,
Or the beautiful promise they’d only just built,
That sticky pink tongue shot straight out like a dart—
SLAP! went the fly, and it tore her apart.
He reeled her back in, didn't chew, didn't pause,
And packed her right down in his rubbery jaws.
He gulped it down fast, with a blink of his eyes,
So he wouldn't have to think about killing the wise.
No grieving, no crying, no emotional wreck—
Just a six-legged frog, wiping bug juice from his neck.
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