Stitch in lines of flesh and skin,
And make some heron-blue crochet,
Down my back, like a brace to hold in
The warts, the rot, the god-ugly decay.
Give me pretty wings,
And then we’ll talk of other things.

Sew the gossamer up, seam by seam,
Weld joint to joint and bone to bone.
Metamorphosis didn’t do it for me
So we’ll do a little magic on our own.
All I want is pretty wings,
And then we’ll talk of other things.

I know you have an artist’s eye and the touch innate.
You could fix me up to your design.
I’m tired of crawling around, bloated with my bitter fate
I’ve my heart set on that oh-so-exclusive sky:
Give to me a pair of pretty wings
So I can be eyeball-to-eyeball with those higher things.

Knit some magic to fuel me, into the marrow of my spine,
And the sad lumpy sack of my body would take on airs divine.
So, if every foot I ascend is torture and I’m airsick for years at a time?
Can you blame me for wanting a world, equal in wonder to thine?
Give me pretty wings
Or I’ll never talk of another thing.

Give me wings,
And even if the scars of surgery showed
It would be the sweetest thing:
To be a re-created Toad.