Croaks blaring like a flood of crickets, 

Bouncing up and down, in an endless loop,

Your orange glimmers while the blood-red sticks to your back,

When will your colour fade away?

And what happens if it does?

 

The sound echos up the mountain and climbs to the top,

Your eyes flicker in the damp swamp as the trees rustle the same tune,

But what happens when the mountain falls?

Will I ever see your stripes again?

I heard they call you chicken. I don't know why,

You scramble on the rocks and slip on the moss,

Why did they eat you?

Why do you run?