Twenty thousand egg men got in my way.

Besides, they’ve got those warts,

and bulbous thighs, of sorts.

They’re not as smooth as frogs is all I can say.

Of Fowler’s Toad I really have no qualm.

The buttons down his back are just the bomb.

It’s lumpy , brown and round,

blending right in with the ground.

Its go-to call’s a sheepish, bleaty sound.

Don’t Goad No Toad is now the ode I write.

Just trying in my way to make things right.

I might not hang out with ’em

or give ’em toys to play.

But I’ll not toxify their ground.

I’ll stay out of their way.

Go on, toad. I will not goad you.