Let me tell you the story of Pepe the Frog,
who would have done well to remain on his log,
contenting himself with the mossies and flies.
But he gave himself airs, and that’s why Pepe died.
Young Pepe’s first words were ‚I’m better than this.‘
His fellow tadpoles said ‚You’re taking the piss!‘
And thus from the very day that he was hatched,
Our Pepe was known as the prick of the batch.
‘That’s it, then,’ said Pepe, ‘I’m leaving this log
To tell the world of feminazis and ZOG,
For then they won’t bother those who turn the screws,
They’ll blame it on foreigners, blacks, and the Jews.’
But soon, Pepe wondered, ‘Oh, what will I eat?’
But an earwig told him where the hunting’s a treat
And the tastiest brains all defencelessly roam.
So 4Chan’s fragrant bogs became Pepe’s new home.
He wrote to the log to tell of his new friends,
‘With Spencer and Bannon, the fun never ends!
We’re making the memes and dividing the loot.’
But he never expected the Antifa boot.
You’d think Pepe’s life was off to a great start,
He helped strike the fear into many a heart.
With Trump in DC he was loving the craic,
So much that wee Pepe did not watch his back.
‘Those lefties are cowards,’ he’d oft heard it said,
‘And if you turn up heavy, they’ll run off in dread.
They’re just keyboard warriors; they’ll run from a fight.‘
As Pepe’d soon learn, this was a bunch of shite.
That day on the streets with all his new friends,
Pepe’d never have guessed that his joy would soon end.
That frog was plain giddy as he took in the scene
Of boneheads with bottles and AR-15s.
When all had arrived, they were led by the cops
to a corner with a mosque and a nice halal shop,
and a synagogue offering a free Yiddish class.
Our Pepe looked forward to kicking some ass.
On such a great day for the men with white laces,
From emptying the bottles they were all off their faces.
The first firebomb they threw did not land with a crack;
It was caught by a comrade, who chucked it right back.
The bottle broke open, the flames soon drew near.
Pepe heard a voice say ‘get the fuck out of here!’
Some of his friends answered by raising their guns,
But soon found out that theirs weren’t the only ones.
Pepe made froggy cough sounds as he choked on the smoke,
And all his friends ran from the butt of their jokes.
He sat blinded by smoke, fire, and muzzle flash,
And the first boot to hit him belonged to the fash.
One after another, the master race fled.
Pepe’d seen better days, but he still wasn’t dead.
His frog eyes were bulging, and he had a hunch
That what he’d puked up wasn’t only his lunch.
Pepe wanted to run when a red and black boot,
Took both his legs clean off and rendered it moot.
He was stomped, and to add to his growing ennui,
He soon started a new life as cuisse de grenouille.
As he breathed his last, our wee fascist frog,
Wondered how things were going back home on the log.
The locals breathed easy, with nothing to fear.
And a white guy with dreadlocks shed Pepe’s first tear.