We went frog gigging one August night. We took a pail and a bright flash light. We took a stick with three sharp prongs, and we listened for the bullfrog songs. Waiting 'til we heard the froggie croaks, we aimed our lights on the ugly blokes. Hypnotized, those frogs sat still, while we lunged forward for each kill. When our bucket was filled to the brim we all went home to butcher them. Each frog, in turn, gave up his life; we cut their legs with a kitchen knife. We battered those legs with soft cornmeal, and we all sat down and ate our fill. But, I could not sleep that night at all; I was missing the sound of the bull frog’s call. Shirley Alexander © 2007Return to Ballads
