Loads of slimy spawn we took,

and put it in our pond.

It slithered off in lumpy heaps.

Already we were fond.

 

The black full stops in every blob,

to comma's quickly turned.

And then they wriggled free of it.

The jelly womb was spurned.

 

We worried as they swam about,

with dangers all around.

The goldfish lurked with menace,

And the boatmen darted round.

 

Most did survive, against the odds,

and entertained us well.

They dived and swam and rushed about,

small fishes, you could tell.

 

Then suddenly they went from view.

No tadpoles could be seen.

We peered into the murky depths.

They never might have been.

 

But as we took a mournful stroll,

one sultry summer eve.

We passed the pond and noticed that

the ground began to heave.

 

The lawn came live, it twitched and flicked,

the flagstones writhe and squirm.

In dead of night they'd sprouted legs

and climbed to terra firm.

 

It's just us and the goldfish now,

plus boatmen, plants and pond.

No taddies to amuse us,

but a thousand eyes look on.