I’ve kissed a lot of frogs and not one of them has turned into a prince.

As if the act of my sexual experience, my search for love needs a shameful covering.

The line of fairy tale romance is like the sheet in tasteful screen nudity.

I didn’t seek out any frogs. I simply discovered they were amphibious

When, after slipping my tongue in their mouths,

After running my hand up their thigh,

I found everything elongated for the stretched truths

Of their lily pad hopping, fly catching lives.

I paused to think before moving further,

And I realized.

If it smells like a toad

And it looks like a toad

And it ribbets sweet nothings like a toad,

Then most likely this love will croak like toad,

Beat up and smooched on the side of the road.

I’ve reached a climactic truth I think,

Far longer lasting than any dick

A prince should feel right inside,

And not just like a prick.

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