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Fox's Breakfast


Frank E Gibbard
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Frank E Gibbard

A bit of nature

in the urban

the creature

wild and yet

in its manner

urbane. Lord

of this manor

once hunted

now unwanted

by many in my

town. We meet

padding down

a quiet street.

Me after pub,

he after grub.

 

Foxy eyes my

Kentucky box,

no way buddy!

But if he's lucky

there are other

meats. A week's

worth of locals'

leftovers beckon

I reckoned, my

interloper trotted

to where the bin

bag repast rotted.

We parted, both

man and beast to

eat our respective

midnight feasts.

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Funny, this!

 

Me after pub,

he after grub.

 

Second reading I found slant-rhyme, alliteration, and homonyms. Inventive, this.

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A genuine joy Frank! Always good to see what your fecund mind will produce. Loved it;-0

 

 

DC&J

thegateless.org Come on over and check out my poetry substack y'all;-) Or if your bored, head to the Zazzle store: https://www.zazzle.com/store/gateless. If you buy anything I lose a bet, so consider that before you violate the digital rules.

 

Gate(less.png

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There's a residual reluctance about shooting foxes in Britain, thanks to the traditions of the hunt ... which gormless city people think is cruel. They shoot them wholesale on the Continent. Foxes in Britain (and Ireland) still have a sporting chance. And they are supremely intelligent creatures. Tell that to chicken breeders! I saw a fox take a straying chicken in the field next to my aunt's house in Co. Clare and it was done with panache and economy in about 5 seconds. Screen One: chicken clucking in open field. Screen Two: flash of ginger brown. Screen Three: fox disappears over stone wall with chicken in mouth. The cunning fecker, says the aunt. Indeed!

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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Nicely topical and well presented. Prompted perhaps by last weeks publicized attack.. where a fox entered someone's home and bit fingers off a small baby in a cot. It seems to have raised the question of foxes (and fox-hunting) all over again... brings back images of Oscar Wilde's famous quote "The unspeakable in pursuit of the inedible."

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Poor dear old Oscar whose body apparently exploded in his final sickness. I wonder if they went after him because he was homosexual or because he came of an Irish background in a hot and dangerous time, shortly after the decline and fall of Parnell. Both, probably. I visited his grave in the Pere Lachaise cemetery in Paris. There were fresh flowers.

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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