The Frog in my Fridge
There’s a frog in my fridge,
Who drinks all my booze,
Then recounts bawdy poems,
Before singing the blues.
He bellows croaky songs,
From dusk until dawn,
An amphibian Tom Waits,
Wallowing in my garlic prawns.
I’ve still to catch a glimpse
Of this elusive green imp.
And suspect he’s in hiding,
Between the mackerel and shrimp.
Although he’s very vocal,
He’s obviously quite shy,
Content to ribbit, ribbit, ribbit,
From behind the steak pie.
The frog in my fridge,
Drove me to pen this short ode.
But things could be worse,
He could be a slimy wee toad.
