In Montmartre, far from the sea he loved, crippled 
by arthritis, Corbière nailed up over his chimney 
the dried carcass of a toad.

As I sat there looking at my toad 
                                          dry on the wall,
Tailless, hopping, dead insect-eater.
Breeding in water with a warty skin,
I heard singing through armored cities 
                                           the toady flatterer.