A poem about catching frogs by the bucketful...
|The grandfather sat down to read a book
before bedtime with his three-year-old grandson.
“What’s this, Wyatt?” “Frog!” “That’s right. Look.
He hops! Say, did your daddy ever tell you of the fun
we had when he was your age going frog hunting?
He was great at it. Of course, frogs aren’t too cunning.
At night just after dark we’d take this plastic bucket
and walk around the block. He’d catch dozens of toads
until eventually they’d be able to jump out of our bucket.
Once this large bullfrog from the bayou across the road
was on the lawn. As your dad went to catch him, he jumped
six feet. Your dad screamed with glee. Boy, was he pumped!
Every time he squatted down to pick up that bullfrog, it
jumped again. Soon they were jumping in unison all
over three lawns. Hilarious! A sight I’ll never forget.
Finally he caught it. Gigantic! It made the toads look small.
As your dad told his mother about it, I laughed ‘til I cried.
That was one bullfrog that certainly didn’t get his legs fried.
We’d dump our haul on the neighbor’s lawn; he’d be impressed.”
“Granddad, will you take me frog hunting? We could go now.”
“Wyatt, all the toads have disappeared! Who’d have ever guessed
that the frogs would be gone. Things just aren’t the same somehow.”
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