Floating Grease Chronicles: Chapter of the Frog

Frogs perish in brine and burning sun Their dreams are but the eternity of bubbles A field of hardship is never yearned for The cheers of the lowly echo through the market The primal frog has turned to stone Feigning elegance, gazing at the ocean from the waterside The visage of marble, corroded by rain Just enough to ascend the halls of art The arena roars with sound The grandest praise belongs to the mob Overhead, the heavy air presses down Hymns to aether fluids carving new shapes The revelry of a poison A scroll of rotting hide Congealed magma The frozen moon The morning sickness of the elite The deathly faith of the dregs Frogs do not perish in brine and burning sun