Across a scarcity of yards
A fox's brush, protruding, shows
A danger lurks within the bush -
But guile and grace and beauty, too:
The guile that he employs with style
The grace that marks his supple form,
The beauty that suffuses all.
What colour can outmatch his rust,
What speeding gait outdo his trot?
No eagle's gimlet gaze outshines
The impish twinkle in his eye.
The fox lacks stature to command,
His numbers cannot overwhelm,
But in his solitary sphere
He reigns supreme in handsomeness.
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