Poor Messrs. Frog!
I fancied the leg in my dish was that of one who volunteered to sing my lullaby.
I almost cried in grief.
The poet was ready to wash the dishes. I was quick to snatch his job. My uncle wiped them.
Stupid uncle!
He broke two dishes.
I collected the bones of the frogs, and buried them. On the stone above them I wrote with a pencil:
“Tomb of Unknown Singers.”
What time was it when we were done with our breakfast?
I couldn’t tell.