Wrong Turn

Two toads converged within a wood
and passed the time of day,
lingering in the hope of prey.
As a traveler approached they parted
one continuing its interrupted route,
the other hopping up the other path,
each an unsuspecting prospect
in the ardent synchronicity
of the nearing man’s agenda
on his horny princess quest.
The traveler, thinly incognito-
a prince disguised as peasant-
seeing both, pursued the nearest,
a royal prerogative.
Overtaking toad and puffing up his nerve,
frog in throat, he popped his question.
The toad stood his ground and faced him.
“Why do you want to kiss me?”
he asked calculatingly.
The prince confessed that he was lonely,
following a hunch based on a story
his queenly mother read to him
when he was but a princely tad
before wet dreams of princesses
interested the castle laundress.
“Pucker up,” said the toad.
The kiss was unprincely;
its outcome likewise,
though in strict accordance
with prevailing local folklore
though at odds with fairy tales.
Of the two now hopping
down that road
in the yellow wood,
one remained content;
the other wished
he had turned left.