David Allen writes

Frog Legs

(A Modern Fairy Tale) 

 

Without realizing the consequences

d.g. leaned out as far as he could,

arm outstretched in some mad play

to catch the ring of fate.

The carousel spun dizzily

no one else could grab the ring,

the hare-lipped troll in

d.g.’s employ had seen to it

that everyone else on the ride

was an amputee.

Nothing was being left

to chance, the prize came

into sight. d.g. stretched,

leaned to snag fate --

Damn! It was gone.

The French war veteran,

a laughing old fart with four

stumps and a backbrace,

had snatched the ring with his

considerable nose.

They came for d.g. when

the machine stopped,

but he was already gone,

disappearing into an alley,

his left leg dragging lifeless

behind him.

The hangman would have to wait.

d.g. was visibly shaken by his

experience with the ghouls of conscience

and the ring of fate.

sweat poured from his pained brow

as he limped to the fire escape

at the end of the alley

that led to his room above

the kitchen door of

Chun’s Chinese Restaurant.

Joe Chun was there, emptying the remains

of several skinned felines

into a dumpster, but

he had his back to the alley and

missed the frog’s entrance.

The frog waited for d.g.

to turn the corner before he spoke.

 “What’s your hurry, friend?”

the frog asked, stepping

lightly from the shadows.

He was dressed nattily, after the fashion

of enchanted princes, and smiled at d.g.,

who had stopped dead in his tracks.

“Oh dear,” said the frog, staring

at the limp body.

“Why does this always happen to me?”

The frog knelt and checked d.g.’s pulse,

it was slow and weak.

Then he slowly, sensuously placed

his moist lips over d.g.’s face

and tenderly caressed his eyelids

with his long, sticky tongue.

“Uh, where, what?” was all

d.g. could say as his eyes opened

and he saw a four-foot frog

dancing a little jig of joy.

“You have to be the weirdest thing

I ever saw,” d.g. said, standing shakily.

“I am here to give great news,” the frog began.

“I can fulfill three wish....”

Joe Chun’s hatchet made a swift impression

on his mind before he could finish.

“Oh, what crazy frog legs

we have tonight,” Joe said.

“Count me out, man,” d.g. answered.

“I don’t think I could stomach any French food.

Goodnight, Joe.”

“You goodnight,” Joe replied,

dragging the frog corpse toward the restaurant.

“Me good eat.”

A Frog He Would A Wooing Go -- Constance Haslewood