Amalgam of electric jelly，

    constellated neural knots

    in the briny binary soup，

    as surely as stimulus prods response

    brains are made to choose.

    And through a major error in pattern recognition

    or a significant cognitive fault，

    the bullfrogs brain has selected

    a two-pound rock

    as the object of his rampant affection，

    a rock （to my admittedly mammalian eye）

    that neither resembles

    nor even vaguely suggests

    the female of his species.

    He does seem to be enjoying himself

    in a blunted sort of way，

    but since the rock so obviously remains unmoved

    one suspects it's not the blending of sweet oblivions

    that fuels his persistence，

    but a serious kink in a feedback loop——

    or perhaps just kinkiness in general.

    The less compassionate might even call him

    the quintessentially insensitive male.

    Assuming a pan-species gender bond

    and a common fret，

    I advise my amphibious pal，

    "Hey， I don't think she's playing hard to get.

    That's the literal case you're up against， Jack——

    true story， buddy； stone fact.

    And I'd be fraternally remiss if I didn't share

    my deep and eminently reasonable doubt

    that she'll be worn down

    however long and spectacular the ardor."

    Ignoring my counsel

    as completely as he has my presence，

    the bullfrog continues his fruitless assault

    with that brain-locked commitment to folly

    which invariably accompanies

    dumb， bug-eyed lust.

    But， in fairness，

    whose brain hasn't shorted out in a slosh of hormones

    or， igniting like a shattered jug of gas，

    fireballed into a howling maelstrom

    where a rock indeed might seem a port？

    One can only conclude

    that such impelling concupiscence

    serves as a species' life-insurance，

    sort of a procreative override

    of any decision requiring thought，

    thought being notoriously prey to thinking，

    and the more one thinks about thinking

    the thinkier it gets.

    Therefore， though the brain is made to choose，

    its very existence ultimately depends

    on the generative supremacy of brainless desire——

    for with all respect to Monsieur Descartes

    you am before you can think you are.

    Dirt-drive compulsions riding powerful desires

    render any choice moot， along with

    reason， morality， taste， manners，

    and all those other jars of glitter

    we pour on the sticky and raw.

    The hard truth is we never chose to choose：

    not the brains we use to pick

    between competing explanations for our sexual mess

    nor these hearts we've burdened with our blunders

    in the name of love.

    Do whatever we decide we will，

    the choice isn't free；

    we live at the mercy of more pressing needs.

    Thus， urges urgently surging，

    we mount a few rocks by mistake.

    A bit more embarrassing than most of our foolishness， true——

    but so what？

    The power of the imperative

    coupled with the law of averages

    virtually guarantees enough will get it right

    to make more brains to be made up

    about exactly what steps to take

    toward what we think we need to do

    on this stony journey between delusion and mirage——

    when to move， where to hide our dreams——

    a journey where we finally learn

    freedom is not a choice

    a brain is free to choose.

    Fortunately， my warty friend，

    the soul is built to cruise.