When I was a sportsman, I knew a talking toad,
He’d comment and criticise, standing by the road.
In long jump, if I fell short, he’d snigger and laugh.
“That is your talent and strength, its clearly not enough.”
If I jumped further on a better day, the toad would still debate,
“You overstepped the starting mark, you’re still as bad my mate.”
I slipped away, with nothing to say, to the velodrome.
Miles away from that stupid toad, at last I felt at home.
To my surprise, as cold as ice, he sprung up at a turn.
Face glee written, as if he’d won, that year’s Ashes urn.
“You’re just as bad, as a cyclist, lad, as you were at long jump.
Next you tame a weaker game, for you’re a useless lump.”
I despised his eyes, growing wise, with anger grit my teeth.
Looked around for a master plan which he’d be crushed beneath.
Pole-vault I did, to get him rid, my chances still a-dim.
He stood there stark, I missed my mark, and fell on top of him.
But still alive, for my cushioned dive, had just his body broke.
Now post some weeks, all he speaks is, “croak, croak, croak”