Would you love me, if you could,
Although my heart and head
Are made of wood?
My arm a kindle of movement about,
If they hit your head you will shout.
A parental voice will then say,
"Put that doll in a box, do not play
With it anymore or any less."
Is it a reason? It can't be a guess.
Toys are wonderful to see
As they can bring joy to thee.

A trail, a path, a rutted road,
marked the journey of the old Toad.
He left the Bog he lived in,
starting his life anew, where it began.
From Bog to trail, through the trees,
hiding in daylight under branches and leaves.
He made his way toward the town,
where his family lived, near the Sound.
Water he craved, back to the Sea,
for this journey is not about him,
but more about the man I be.
I must go now; the ight grows dim
as our journey in life is short,
from the time we were born
until life does abort.

The roar of thunder
outside our door,
makes me wish,
for even more.
I love the sound
of rain on the roof.
Makes me feel humble,
certainly not aloof.

The Gods are at play,
is often said,
when the game they're playing,
can wake the dead.
A rolling noise, coming this way,
show me the Gods really do
know how to play.