FROGS.

 Brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax!
 Brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax!
 We children of the fountain and the lake
 Let us wake
 Our full choir-shout, as the flutes are ringing out,
 Our symphony of clear-voiced song.
 The song we used to love in the Marshland up above,
 In praise of DIOnysus to produce,
 Of Nysaean DIOnysus, son of Zeus,
 When the revel-tipsy throng, all crapulous and gay,
 To our precinct reeled along on the holy
 Pitcher day.
 Brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax.

THE FROGS