Eighteen men strapped on their large boots,
They'd been working and now demanded their fruits.
Barefoot they trudged in forests dense,
They stared at leaves 'till they ceased to make sense.
Why are they green and moist and pointy?
Why aren't they crooked and brown and jointly?
Onward they trudged, on moss-laden ground,
Their leader stood firm, "I gently expound,
This mound on the ground that I have found,
Is browned and crowned and bound and round."
The seventeen other barefoot men,
Looked up above and sighed, "amen".
For whenever this leader stood tall and firm,
They cowered alike until forced to squirm.
"This is no mould or mushroom bleak!
This is the child from a frog and a freak!"
This perplexed them all, they stood astounded,
At this man's brain- man, were they confounded.
How could a frog and a freak mate?
Surely, their privates did not equate.
And if they did, would they have produced,
A weakling, a blob, in need of a roost?
Each one of them pictured a beast confused,
One with small mucous pores that oozed.
Slimy skin which squeaked when touched,
Disfigured ears which to its green legs clutched.
What was this lump lying on the ground?
Pathetic-looking, unbreathing and sound?
"It's a new species, we will be rich!
Maybe it could cure an incurable itch!"
'This man is off his conkers', they thought,
But argue with him they simply could not.
So, with excitement ringing in their artificial voices,
The collected this "species" and buried their vices.
They returned to their tents with sores on them feet,
Where their boots stood proudly in their cozy retreat.
They put them on and sunk into the mud,
And silently hoped to cool off their hot blood.
