300 – Fox

Poem number 300
.
Fox
.

Foxy fox so reddy brown, a chicken in your mouth
I hope that when the winter comes you piss off further south
I’m trying to run a chicken farm, I’m trying to make some dough
But you’re eating all my profits and I wish that you’d just go
I’ve got a wife and mortgage and I’d like a drink or two
But I’m brassic, potless, stony broke and all because of you
I know you’re simply hungry when you raid my chicken run
And I really am a peaceful man, I haven’t got a gun
But I’m getting very angry and my tether’s getting frayed
And I may just try and kill you if you try another raid
So here’s a thought, old foxy fox, your fur so brown and red
There’s a Nandos in the high street – why not bother them instead?
You could decimate their wheelie bins, dine richly from their trash
And leave me to my chicken farm and let me earn some cash
If you don’t, then dearest foxy fox I’ll have just one recourse
I will have to rent a horse and hounds and swiftly, with remorse
I will hunt you down, and savage you, and rip your legs in twain
So please take this as a warning – don’t come near my hens again!

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