From the ditch by the concession stand

[Acappella]

I heard a father toad sigh to the string of black pearl children
notions of the deepest toad love,
parting notions.
He dare not look upon them once the wriggling started
    -lest the tongue-
  (It need not be said. It had happened to other toads.)

He sighed, “Treasure the tails my darlings.
Suckle the stones.
But if the puddle dries up,
you sprout legs quick.  Your warts will protect you now.
You’ll find you must piss in a mouth or two
if you want to string your own puddle-shined necklace
down the depths
of evolutionary time.”