Page:Frogs (Murray 1912).djvu/30

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Co-äx, co-äx, co-äx,

Brekekekex co-äx.

Don't sing any more;

I begin to be sore!

Brekekekex co-äx.

Co-äx, co-äx, co-äx,

Brekekekex co-äx!

Is it nothing to you

If I'm black and I'm blue?

Brekekekex co-äx!

A plague on all of your swarming packs.

There's nothing in you except co-äx!

Well, and what more do you need?

Though it's none of your business indeed,

When the Muse thereanent

Is entirely content,

And horny-hoof Pan with his reed:

When Apollo is fain to admire

My voice, on account of his lyre

Which he frames with the rushes

And watery bushes—

Co-ax!—which I grow in the mire.