An amphibian is no stranger to art

When even in the dell was green Atop the hills and in between, One might have heard, but scarcely seen A choir in the weeds. The frogs they were, of voice most clear, And all of them had keenest ear And sang aloud in harmony Their ageless croaking rhapsodies. They sang alone without piano; Many bass, but few soprano The toad among them was a tenor, Of noble bearing and demeanor. When one night they were at the parish Dressed up in tuxedos garish Performing in that giant hall, A sudden silence did befall! The audience began to quiet, The air was tense, I won’t deny it; Before the first note had been sung But was held in waiting on the tongue, A noise there was upon stage left That left their speech and wits bereft: Footsteps padding on the stage And up to the conductor’s cage There walked a small, disdainful fly With glasses thick upon his eyes. He paged through his conductor’s score; (The awe-struck singers stared the more) Motioned the music to be passed, And raised baton in stern address! The baton came down, the first chord rang, The fly drew all effort from each note that they sang; The score was matchless, each bar was inerrant The frogs watched as though children, The fly-maestro the parent. Now comes the solo! Hark to the thrill Of the tenor in wonder! His voices the hall fills! In accent how prudent! In tone how sublime As he masters his part for the very first time; And now the fly bids him his last note sustain And the frog pours it forth with all of his main! Still he sustains it! Can such a thing last? Deep inside his lungs reaches for every last gasp, And the fly bids him muster, with quavering palm Till at last all is quiet, in an instant is calm. Then in joyous resolve, and as per the score, The reprisal rebounds grander now than before! The choir in section and unison spans What notes can be sung by amphibians; Then finally finish in massive chords sage That continue through every last bar of the page; Then the fly bids them stop! with a flick of his hand, And were the song great, yet the silence more grand. All movement was settled, all sound became mute, For the sound they’d just heard was one none could refute; The choir in wonder at what they’d locuted, The audience quiet, completely confuted. At last the conductor by degrees turned about To face that great crowd, who all shouted aloud; With a bow to his fans and a nod to the frogs, He gave a high buzz, and he flew himself out.

we blossom and flourish, as leaves on the tree