Bullfrog

He saved that bullfrog’s life perhaps,

Some distant summer day.

They mocked and called him baby,

A wimp, a wuss, “You’re gay!”

Perhaps he was too tender,

Hysteria heaved him down.

He must have looked a heated fool.

Tears, and clinching ground.

But they took the firecracker from the bullfrog’s mouth,

And he swiftly hopped away.

The boy then too retreated.

Blood-shot, ashamed to stay.

The labels they gave have stuck around,

Though, he rarely lets it show.

Sometimes though, he’ll rest by a pond,

And swear he hears “rib-it... rib-it... hero.”