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.