I am practicing reading modernist revolutionary poetry aloud. My accent is atrocious. Still, a day will come when the Panamanian golden frog will tumble from my lips, and I will catch and hold it, and whatever word I spoke, I’ll say again and again, until I stand at the center of a sea of yellow skins, and make from my curse at last a cloth of gold.

November Book Reviews: Toad Words by T. Kingfisher

That sort doesn’t like to admit she’s been reduced to stealing food, thought the cook. Poor soul! It’s only a few apples. Lord, if you’re watching, those apples are freely given. You don’t hold them against her soul. (The cook was in the habit of lecturing the Lord, whom she considered a colleague.)

Eventually she fell back into a lot of "hey fiddle dee and hidey ho," with an occasional "hey nonny" thrown in. "Hey nonny" is a parasite that attaches itself to folk music, and left unchecked can suck an unsuspecting song completely dry. The infestation of this particular song was not well advanced, but did not bode well for future generations.

I just remembered that I HAVE actually recommended Toad Words on here (mostly by reblogging the entire text of the story when it crossed my dash at one point) but, here it is again.