I'm Frank, the frog collector,
and I'm happy to report
my collection's nearly finished;
I have frogs of every sort.
I record them in my journal
so that every single frog
is accounted for completely
with an entry in my log.
I have hundreds, maybe thousands
of amphibians1 at home.
I have frogs of quilted fabric2.
I have frogs of gleaming chrome.
I have frogs of painted porcelain3,
and frogs of brass4 and tin.
I have frogs you open up
to find another frog within.
There are small magnetic tree frogs
clinging gently to the fridge
and Louisiana bullfrogs
on a plastic bayou bridge.
I have frogs on ancient bicycles
with shiny silver bells.
I have frogs proposing marriage
to their froggy mademoiselles.
You'll see frogs ascending5 ladders.
You'll see frogs descending6 stairs,
yes, and frogs reclining dreamily
in comfy leather chairs.
I have frogs with pink umbrellas.
I have frogs engrossed7 in books.
Even frogs that dangle8 fishing poles
in nonexistant brooks9.
My abode10 is filled with frogs
from top to bottom, front to back.
There are frogs in every corner,
every crevice11, every crack.
There is only one that's missing;
just one blank space in my log.
So I'm begging, mom and dad,
can I please have a REAL frog?