The Fox
Tally Ho, Tally Ho, a hunting we will go. To catch a fox, whatever for? I will never know They get the hounds together. The gentry on their mounts. To hunt a tiny little fox. There's Princes, Lords and Counts. They deck themselves in finery. Top hats, Frock coats and Pinks. They partake of a stirrup cup. And many other drinks. The hounds are ready for the hunt. They're baying at the door. The Huntman sounds his hunting horn. And the hunt begins once more. The little fox hears the barking hounds. As he cowers in his den. He only just got away last time. But here they come again. He knows the hounds will find him . If he stays in his little home. So over the country he must run. To save his skin and bone. His little legs start trembling. As he starts his run for life. He must escape those snapping teeth. That cut just like a knife. He knows his days are numbered. As he makes for some hollow logs. His little heart is beating. As he hears the baying of the dogs. It isn't only just the fox. When sometimes things go wrong. Some cats and dogs are torn apart. By the snapping snarling throng. What sort of people do these things. They're not fit to be around. Can't they leave the foxes all alone. In their happy hunting ground.
Maureen Flynn-Smith
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Copyright © 2003 by Maureen Flynn-Smith. All Rights Reserved
May be used in unchanged form by avowed Animal Rightists if accompanied by this copyright message.
May be used in unchanged form by avowed Animal Rightists if accompanied by this copyright message.