I'm Frank, the frog collector,and I'm happy to reportmy collection's nearly finished;I have frogs of every sort.I record them in my journalso that every single frogis accounted for completelywith an entry in my log.I have hundreds, maybe thousandsof amphibians at home.I have frogs of quilted fabric.I have frogs of gleaming chrome.I have frogs of painted porcelain,and frogs of brass and tin.I have frogs you open upto find another frog within.There are small magnetic tree frogsclinging gently to the fridgeand Louisiana bullfrogson a plastic bayou bridge.I have frogs on ancient bicycleswith shiny silver bells.I have frogs proposing marriageto their froggy mademoiselles.You'll see frogs ascending ladders.You'll see frogs descending stairs,yes, and frogs reclining dreamilyin comfy leather chairs.I have frogs with pink umbrellas.I have frogs engrossed in books.Even frogs that dangle fishing polesin nonexistant brooks.My abode is filled with frogsfrom top to bottom, front to back.There are frogs in every corner,every crevice, every crack.There is only one that's missing;just one blank space in my log.So I'm begging, mom and dad,can I please have a REAL frog?