After this poem came to me yesterday I was forced, after much introspection and self-examination, to come to the inescapable conclusion that I am, in fact, a 9-year-old boy trapped in a grown man’s body. Again, you have been warned…
Dead frogs are mushy, frogs they are green,
And when run-over, look like a busted spleen.
Flat legs a-twitchin’ on the ground;
Their heads marmalised – too spread to be found.
Tiny bones cracked, intestines now soup,
Licked up by the pet-dog, and turned into poop.
A Gross-Out Poem By T. James, October, 2011.
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