FREDDY THE FROG COULDN’T CROAK
climb a wall, crawl like ants in the pants of a hot romance dance, roar like a lion and if he kept tryin’, maybe cry like a baby sucking its bottle, cooing alot and ranting while panting and wetting its pants.
Freddy was ready to imitate this and that, the meow of a cat, the crack of a bat, a tire gone flat, the sound of a rat caught in a trap, the clap-clap-clap of the immense audience at the close of a hit of a play on Broadway.
Freddy the frog---and this is no joke---could mime anything anytime, but never thought he could croak. Then one night he soaked his throat in six bottles of Coke to wash down a big bowl of Navy beans.
“I’ve found the source of the sound surrounding me,” he told his fans joyfully. “For the first time you will hear a frog mime a croak.”
Freddy the frog ate a bowl of Boston beans, bite after bite on stage, then washed down the musical poot-a-toot beans with his new found art he thought was a croak was a facsimile
He held the microphone to his rear. At first the crowd began to cheer. Then suddenly they smelled what the ear could only hear. They booed and shooed the pooh-poohing, frog out on his rear.
And that was the end of Freddy’s gas passing croak less break winding career.