The Fox Who Came To Dinner

The Fox Who Came To Dinner

By Peter Woodgate

In the corner of our garden there’s a gate,

From there, a pathway leads, to those who wait.

It seems that only beauty, that’s perceived,

Is allowed within the area believed

To be within each legal boundary

That’s shown upon official deeds, you see.

Divided up without a care for those,

Whose ownership was recognised by nose

And the countryside divided just by scents,

Aesthetically, is now spoilt by each fence.

Not that Mr Fox would miss his calling,

Leaping six-foot fences, without falling.

I fed him, but sometimes felt forlorn,

The rascal urinated on my lawn,

Brown marks unfortunately show,

“What the Hell,” I thought, “it will soon grow.”

There came a day though when he did get caught,

A visit when I knew he didn’t aught,

A daylight entrance, getting rather bold,

Jo saw him and did more than scold.

I heard a loud and very piercing scream,

Mr Fox, he quickly left the scene.

Jo knew I had been feeding him,

A heinous crime and unforgivable sin.

I must confess I do still feed the fox,

Just outside the gate and in a box,

Without a lid, of course, that would be bad

And drive the fox insane, that would be sad.

So, the Vulpes vulpes is still fed

Usually when I’m tucked up in my bed.

I look each morning to check it’s gone,

Of course it is, left-overs none.

Just lately though, I’m leaving more

The reason being,  I am quite sure,

Two boxes now, without the lids

Because he brings his mate, and kids.

PS (cubs didn’t rhyme)

Copyright Peter Woodgate