Caught fresh from the creek across my home

I gather it in a blue bucket matching the mist

Its skin brown as mud may be gross to some

I begin to wonder, will a prince come from a kiss?

As my lips pucker to touch it’s swampy cold skin

The poor thing burst into a pile of green goo

Like a balloon it popped like a rock on metallic tin

And my mind rang: “What on earth did you do?”

It had slipped my mind that my mouth was poison

That every kiss I offer would be a deadly mistake

Fumes would float from my lips I moistened

With my pink tongue as sharp as a rake

Oh! That poor toad that had turned to jello

All because I hoped you would turn into a handsome fellow