Herbert Nehrlich 2

Rookie (04-10-1943 / Germany)

The History Of Frog Pigment - Poem by Herbert Nehrlich 2

A frog is green not by design,
but by his own volition,
it started all with Father Rhine
where Grandpa did his fishing.

Back then pollution was a word
used only by the teachers,
it's what they read and overheard
on air wave science features.

Each Saturday, my Opa sat
down by the raging river
he was a stocky man, not fat
and had a touchy liver.

I think they told us kids that fate
had brought him this affliction
I had my doubts....at any rate
it was a plain addiction.

His tackle box contained the lure
and hooks and rooster feathers,
two flasks of Russian Vodka, pure
a snot rag which was Heather's.

He'd spend the afternoon in place
and caught some on occasion,
a buddy from a different race
would join him, he was Asian.

The Asian fellow saw him first,
a frog of brownish colour,
and while they stilled their urgent thirst
Opa began to holler:

'This animal seems bigger then
the fishes in these waters
I think it is a water hen
with lots of sons and daughters.'

It is unclear what happened now,
the frog took great exception
he raised one eye beneath each brow
to tender this subreption.

He had, from passing fishermen
heard of the Northern creatures,
there was a land beyond Big Ben
where publicans and preachers

wore green and would not hesitate
to drown their frequent sorrows,
at dawn or in the evening, late
to soothe their new tomorrows.

The frog, surrounded as he is
by water and small fishes,
was not attracted to the fizz
of spirits, no, his wishes

had focused on the colour seen
it soothed his bulging pupils,
he dreamed and wanted to be green,
and entertained no scruples.

A boat passed on a certain day
it wore the name Kilkenny,
he asked if he could pay his way
though didn't own a penny.

He was determined so he said
'dear Sir, you are the skipper
here in these waters I'll be dead
snuffed out by Jack The Ripper!

So in return for cabin space
and passage I'll surrender
one leg, in premium bouillabaisse
cooked to perfection, tender.'

He added ' I can grow it back,
we of the lower species
can manufacture what we lack
from any smelly feces.'

They made the deal, and landed soon
on Wednesday, it was sunny,
it was an early afternoon
the skip was in the dunny.

The frog accelerated on
the deck and soon departed,
mid-air into this clever con
he laughed and then he farted.

'Frog leg, you stupid sailing fool
I'd be the dumbest critter,
so go ahead my man and drool
and stay there on your shitter.'

That is what happened in the past,
the frog soon met a sheila,
their date proceeded rather fast
helped by some good Tequila.

But what you probably don't know
is Irish folks are lucky
they read their Edgar Allan Poe
and dream about Kentucky.

Yet no one lacks the common sense
to drink the nation's potion,
it ties up all their random ends
and fosters great devotion.

So now you know what happened here,
back there I mean, dear reader,
we covered frogs and Irish beer
and mentioned briefly breeder,

that's it for now, well, um, I mean
since frog was relocated
all his descendants turned out green
and also those who mated

produced the Irish nation's pride
with fierce and loyal kiddoes
did I forget then to confide
that there were countless widows....

due to the fact that only males
acquired the pigmented
and so attractive frog leg scales
that Nature had invented

and connoisseurs preferred the hue
and usually ate doubles,
so now you know why Opa knew
and had those liver troubles.

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Poem Submitted: Monday, March 1, 2010

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