On the toads, I’m finding shelters
Like you never knew. Rotten curve,
The moon in her Bishop’s thong
Carving orders of turkey, art-
Manacled turkey-shaped statuary
For the toadlings a-hatching
Bomb plans like factories of goo
Out by the pond, I swear, you’d think
They had an artillery range a-test.
All that squelching through made
My toes turn yellow. Now I’m afraid
To even move without reprimand
Knowing you’re on the move
With the rest of us, a-gouging.
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