Well, he croaked.

Finally.

I thought he’d live forever

and I’d see him again

same time same place next year,

but no.

They say his throat

swelled too large as he reared back

to ribbit one last time.

His voice always bellowed

like a good old-fashioned voice ought to,

but this time it was too low.

He had tried to reach a note

I know he can’t reach.

Couldn’t.

And the strain was just too much.

He slipped off his stool

and rolled across the stage into the crowd.

With some effort we supported him,

slimy back, sleek limbs, and all.

He almost slid from our grip,

but more hands were always there.

At the edge of the crowd

the open field bordered on a pond.

Oh Frogman, we delivered you home

as you delivered us.