The Winged Lice
“Lice do not sprout wings,” cried the frog to the stingray.
The frog's eyes rolled onto the log and into the bay.
The stingray, with his mouth in the sand, chose to stay
and grit grains of sand between the bridges of his teeth.
“And misery is not, in and of itself, an art form,” muttered the stingray.
A rooster, speckled and gray, not by the name of Ray but Keith,
charged into the water with a wreath of moss 'round his black bouvier.
“Butter hardly makes a breakfast!” he shrieked and then slipped away.
“Nonsense,” hissed a steaming snail by the frog, “The nonsense of the day.”
And with that, tooth upon tooth started raining from the sky—yes, teeth!
Then the snail snapped his fingers and became an ashtray.