A Pot Of Irish Frogs
- Eddie O'Hara -
- Illustrated by R.W. Aristoquakes
Who thought he’d like to take a chance
On eating legs of Irish frogs
That croaked out on the Irish bogs
The Frenchman squished the Irish bogs
Until he found a pool of frogs
He filled his bucket to serve his want
Then, squished his way to a restaurant
Just like they do in a French cookbook
He put the frogs into a pot
But wasn’t ready yet to get them hot
A bottle of his best, as he said to himself
"Oy know what’d be royt to flavour dem up
I’ll add da ohld oyrish whasky, but no more dan a cup"
From the pot came a chorus of The Irish Rover!
The chef gasped, "Well, I naver tought I’d aver hear a pot sing!
Da wee folk must have done dis ting!"
Till the frogs leapt onto the pot’s wide brim
They were Irish to the brogue, and their chorus flowed
Through a delightful (slurred) version of The Old Bog Road!
Caused a commotion on hearing the sound
He sought to lay blame - he’d assessed it a blunder
And cried to the chef, as loud as thunder
"Monsieur, you have ruined my legs!
With your rocket fuel, that’s no more than dregs!"
The chef in a daze, remained unfazed
In reproaching the Frenchman who was going half crazed
From Boston to Shanghai and even Van-coh-ver
But I won’t argue wid ya, because yer a guest
And I’m sure neider will da wee people, who did dis in jest!"
The Frenchman refused to listen at all
Until the chef informed him, he’d cooked for De Gaulle
That must have impressed like a medal of honour
The chef was embraced like there was no tomorrour!
The Frenchman now preferred legs off a platter
He apologized to the chef for making a scene
They drank whiskey together, and the frogs hopped away clean!