There once was a frog that lived on a log in a bog.
The frog’s name was Frank, but the others called him Fred,
And frankly, Frank felt foolish when they did.

Frank was a friendly frog, in a genuinely unfriendly bog.
But still, quite often, off and on,
Frank the frog would have the others to his log.

And all the others always came and called Frank Fred and ate his flies.
But he was happy just the same, for Frank was just a friendly frog
Trying to find some other friendly frogs to be his friend.

He was close one time to a toad named Tim, from across the road
That flowed though the unfriendly bog
That housed the log in which the frog would come home to unwind and unload.

And it was indeed thanks to him, the toad named Tim,
That Frank was nearly torn limb from limb by some limb-tearing boys
Who regarded toads and frogs as toys.

For fun, the limb-tearing boys flung their toys, the frog and the toad,
To see them scram from an old Dodge Ram that was rambling recklessly down the road
That flowed through the bog where the frog made a log his abode.

The two, they landed on the road; first the frog and then the toad,
Who turned to Frank, but called him Fred and said,
“We’d better jump or we’ll be dead!”

Frank the frog looked feverishly frightened as the Dodge Ram rambled down the road
That ran through the bog where his friend the toad, through the fog, looked frozen in fear.

The Ram rumbled relatively close to Frank the frog,
Who frankly closed his eyes and jumped from the spot where he was lodged,
And out of harms way and away from the Dodge.

He looked for his friend, the toad named Tim, but knew not what kind of shape he was in
Until he looked back towards the road that flowed through the bog where Frank the frog had invited others to his log.

Frank fled freely to his escape, with a frighteningly feverish gape,
For in order to clean the road, there now lay a toad they would surely have to scrape.

You see, the toad named Tim was deceased and was dead.
The Dodge Ram ran right over his head.  In fact, flattened it was more correct.
And now with one less toad to call Frank Fred, some satisfaction he did detect.

But enough of the past, for the present, to pursue what transpired
With the frog from the bog who’s friend just expired.

Frank, the friendless frog, finally fled the unfriendly bog
Where the unfriendly frogs fiendishly ate his flies
And called him Fred.

It took but two hops and a jump from one lillypad to another,
As Frank clopped and clumped towards “Dead Toad Road,”
(Which is the one that flowed through the bog where the frog abandoned his log that was previously his abode)

And with tears in his eyes, Frank looked back and cried,
As he hopped, skipped, and jumped on his way.
But his drips dried up dry as the others called for him to stay.

“Come back soon, Fred!” they said, as Frank hopped away,
Knowing that a friendly frog will be welcome in any bog, any day,
But a dead toad in the road will always stay that way.