Standing trees were oft so loggy
and croaking frogs were oft so froggy
but the swirling mist, it stayed,
no matter how loud'r long he bayed.
Of t'impassive gray grew he a fear;
on every side he found it near
and felt its cool in nose and ear.
But the cloud left'm nowhere to run,
not a thing to do but wait for sun.
All at once there was naught but dark.
Fore eight'd spent t'sun its last spark.
Laid he down on wet ground and didn't bark.
The fog began to fall as snow
and the starlight shown as the last warmth did go.