Should Hope kiss a toad
is continuously a puzzle,
as pop eyes abound
and sewn gapes of muzzle.
Scrawny limbs may grow lithe
or may remain scrawny.
Distended pots may never
tighten smooth and bonny.
Hope scratches her various
tight curls and looks serious.
What if no dance emerges
from these throttled leaps?
What if for song is only
more basso-contralto reeps?
The dumb, malevolent stare
of fear may never melt,
nor electric soft skin
replace obnoxious, nubbed pelt.
Hope nips her perfect thumbnail
in her perfect smile.
Her eyes may recede and blink
forever, and her limbs
may stay fat, and she may always
shriek saccherine hymns.
How can she fail disaster
with her unpondering lope?
She will provide few insects.
Should a toad kiss Hope?
