我看见三个人站在吧台旁，看着他们的酒瓶，一只青蛙抽着一支他们塞进烟门里的劣质雪茄。一只帕夏蛙，它一定是那么大，那么臃肿;烟碱从它的唇边飘过，像一束优雅的花。当三个人嘲笑和开玩笑的时候，好像它很享受，它无动于衷地抽着烟，(现在它完全可以避免抽烟了)。它的嘴唇附近有一圈火，但它似乎完全不知情;它不能像你我一样，随地吐痰，我们已经学会了随地吐痰的艺术。它不眨眼，也不退缩，静静地蹲在那里，它的眼睛是清澈的，它不害怕上帝分配给它的命运。在他们残酷的厮杀中，它安详而崇高地蹲在那里;像神一样庄严，一直都知道自己快死了。不知怎的，在我看来，这些吐痰的人，远不如他，他们所引诱的那个蠢东西。 It seemed to say, despite their jokes: "This is my hour of glory. It isn't every frog that smokes: My name will live in story." Before its nose the smoke arose; The flame grew nigher, nigher; And then I saw its bright eyes close Beside that ring of fire. They turned it on its warty back, From off its bloated belly; It legs jerked out, then dangled slack; It quivered like a jelly. And then the fellows went away, Contented with their joking; But even as in death it lay, The frog continued smoking. Life's like a lighted fag, thought I; We smoke it stale; then after Death turns our belly to the sky: The Gods must have their laughter.