Four billion years of genetic toil
Have come down to this:
Slimy underbellies and thickened, ridged skins.

And here they are, lined up like inmates
On a street corner by truant children,
With a kingship to the winner:

A paper crown and immortal frog name.

Four billion years of genetic toil:
They grow, they strengthen with the years,
But so do the things that gnaw and eat them.

Lined up, and ready to depart in glory.

-December, 1999