what Kermit doesn’t say to the taxi driver on the way to the Met

it’s not easy being
green, to always wear
the same outfit and yet
never quite fit in,

a greenhorn in a world
of know-it-all puppets
left with all the jobs
no one else wants,

one could so easily
turn into a green-eyed
monster that envies
all the rest

for parts more loved
than any held
by a swamp-singing
baritone on a lily pad,

even a greenstick fracture
could be so easily gotten
from slapstick falling
but gets no sympathy,

only a laugh
here and there, perhaps
for a common
green frog

trying to make a few
greenbacks, to put
a new bowtie on
his neck, just once