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             Où se trouvent ces crapauds Qui crachent sur notre tête ? Où sont-ils, ces sales bêtes
  Things to see pass in a storm:  A bicycle rider,  One wicked witch,  4 large antelope,  5 dancing teacups,  Big purple elephant, 
   The rain has come again,  to grace sidewalks and streets and silicone handles on blue and green umbrellas, Oh! How the rain has come again.
Where do frogs go in the winter? What do they do?  Do they huddle under covers like me and you?  Forgive me, you and I, a terrible mistake. 
thickets of ivy bathtubs of mud a consortium of bubbling bleating hearts slipping, sliding gliding with  powers of croaking warlocks from stick to rock-- careful, hold on,
He had eyes green as lily pads, And a heart, large as the pond outside his grandad’s house Where we splashed and squealed as children.
  Lend an ear and lend a hand The frogs are all in such demand! They clean our water and eat bad bugs And give us clues for medical drugs. Their state of health can tell us a lot
The nightly winds howl as I lie in bed, awake. I can hear the frogs.   As their endless croaks get louder and louder, I become more restless.   As I turn back and 
Jump, splash, plop. A calm peaceful pond, Little frogs swimming around, Exploring the wondrous beauty.
Bullets born from our sorrowful tears, cold as ice and clear as crystal Fire through the dense barricade of the emerald-green, leave-covered, tree-filled canopy As an electrified bolt of lightning
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