Gigged Poems

Grandma's Frog Fry

I recall my southern reared grandmother
Telling how good frog legs are to eat
Tastes a lot like chicken
Can be quite a treat

She sent me down to the farm pond
To fetch some frogs to fry
With gig in hand down to the pond I trod
To give frogging a try

With hot earth burning my bare feet
I formulated my plan
I gigged me some husky brutes
Enough to nicely fill a pan

Threw them in a tote sack
Over my shoulder that old tote swung
Back up the path I quickly ran
Envisioning the taste upon my tongue

Grandmother came to clean them up
Golly, did it ever make a mess
The blood and all that goo
My appetite it did depress

Tossed those frog legs in the hot skillet
Where they began to fry
The legs began to twitch and jump
One from the pan it did fly

Landed, still twitching, near my feet
With that, out the door I flew
I swear that until this very day
I have not given one frog leg a chew