Reflections On A Stool Poem by Kevin Maroney

Do you think, upon a stool,
A crockety frog a great fool?
The gas bellows in and out,
To such a swelling as to bleat and shout.
What, are you trapped, fowl bird?
Are you hidden away, not seen nor heard?
Are you certain this is your face?
Or have you ambition for more ruly place?

This molten, red, dead hot metal,
does ever faster kill in way subtle.
A viscous fluid flows through the streams,
the streams lead straight to and true to my seams.
What art I but bird in a fettle,
one to prove and bleat his mettle?
One who wants yet cannot shrill,
with this ardent blue savory swill.

The color changed, indeed sharp twig,
yet reason enough I hath, true, hid -
This reaction, back and forth does dare
like some gross misuse, some foul hare.
It plucks the dollar from under my nose,
yet still I have plenty, or so he knows.
He's angered and so he tries again,
and therefore turns another cycle, again.

But where left I, this forced story so bleak,
I am the bandit, the hare, the bird, the frog so weak.