Toad

I 'm just about the color of mud,

I 've a bobby mouth and a knobby back;

I bundle away, I tumble and thud,

I lack the knack of walking a crack.

I sit and think at the chink of my hole—

Nothing like flies for a plump, buff belly—

I rather reckon I have n't any soul,

Though I 'm not altogether pebbles and jelly.

As soon as the roses I smell the rain,

I wink one eye when two would n't do;

I pad my ribs, and I don't complain.

I 'm toad, but no toady—How about you?