Frank, the Frog Collector

　　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 amphibians at home.

　　I have frogs of quilted fabric.

　　I have frogs of gleaming chrome.

　　I have frogs of painted porcelain,

　　and frogs of brass 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 ascending ladders.

　　You'll see frogs descending stairs,

　　yes, and frogs reclining dreamily

　　in comfy leather chairs.

　　I have frogs with pink umbrellas.

　　I have frogs engrossed in books.

　　Even frogs that danglefishing poles

　　in nonexistant brooks.

　　My abode is filled with frogs

　　from top to bottom, front to back.

　　There are frogs in every corner,

　　every crevice, 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?