Our precious FOX and the lousy huntsmen

The quad bike gang
The terrier men
Who have their work to do
To have a go at the saboteurs
a proper clueless crew
Often they have a terrier
A shovel and a spade
They open gates and close them
And mend fences if its laid
Flushing or digging foxes out
Shouting expletives too
Following the hunt about
That is what they do

Its a glorified occasion
The hounds and all in flight
Following a foxes scent
Prelaid down its right
To see the Sabs use citronella
Hoping they dissuade
The hounds to change direction
So as to yea put paid
To hounds getting on a real fox
The vermin of the piece
That’s what most hunts call them
The fox just has no lease
Despite the law of England
Still hunts want the fox
And the need is to get saboteurs
To expect some real hard knocks

It gets noisy and aggressive
But when the hounds do see
A fox that they can catch
Its hell for leather actually
And catching it they are all over it
Biting just like mad
The fox is dispatched in minutes
Which ofcourse for us is sad
Old dogs say 8-10 years
When their feet are wearing thin
When their names are not called out
They take that on the chin
Get sulky and get moody
So Hunts tend to do
Is take them out and shoot them
Eye to eye alas its true

Wild foxes are creations gift
Vermin they are not
They make their homes in marl pits
Or in tunnels that have got
smaller due to rabbits Vacating them so they
Are Ideal for the foxes
Where eroded tree roots play
A part providing shelter
And earths seen as a way
Old tunnel systems clearly
Criss cross and they can be
Opened up and used by foxes
Expeditiously
Foxes dig ofcourse they do
But the Badgers clearly they
Have heavier more efficient digging tools
Along the way

Foxes have good hearing
They are really into sound
Rodents especially field voles
Running underground
All the little squeaks they make
The fox is so well versed
He is one of Mother Natures children
Its the huntsman that is cursed
Trapped animals the fox will often
Help himself
And leaves his calling card
Which may offend
The trapper or the hunter
Or the so called countryman
So wrathfulness and anger
Can descend

Into indignation
From the farmer who may have
Laid a trap expecting to
Catch the fox but they are far too cunning
And baby birds who fall
Is what they do
The fox clears up the victims
He is always on the lookout
A free meal and he is off
And running through
The forest through wherever
His hearing
Is his gift
Approaching hounds
Or horses or even man or anything
In leaps and bounds

As I said before
The Fox is a child of Nature
With built in instinctive
Knowledge he can use
He can stay still, sham sleep
And, run like the clappers
In his arsenal he has every ruse
He is never a philosopher
His energy and verve
Has clearly been designed for him
He runs straight and can swerve
Imagine being chased by baying hounds
Out for his life
He has to have the turn of speed
And overcome the strife

He learns to detect enemies
And thats all done with smell
There noses are spectacular
And, that holds them well
Its about coordination
Sight hearing and smell
But the fox is extra cunning
As countryfolk do tell
Hunting is for me a medieval
Practice where
Hunters on their horses chase
Down a wild soul their
Packs of hounds, trained up to hunt
Take the scent and run
Enthused with all their wild intent
Like tinder in the sun

Foxes know the countryside
Every place where they
Can double back and go to earth
In a smouldering display
They may even hunt a vole perhaps
Its what the fox can do
Out of temper so forbidding
Its contempt and madness too
They gallop at a fine pace
Head up brush kept low
They look a bit untidy
But seemingly they throw
An awful lot of energy
Into their streaming gait
As if they feel the baying breath
And are not about to wait

He can be a scavenger
And a cleaner if you will
Living on the carrion
The guts that sometimes spill
He also is the hunter
And A predator supreme
And can be the opportunist
And come and pinch the cream
Chickens in a lousy coop
It happens but the fox
Is more in tune with wild kills
He cannot unpick locks
Its really up to humans
To safeguard animals they
Keep for their own reasons
At the end of the day

The hunt, I cant abide them
They get no respect from me
Most are wholly arrogant
So dispicable they be
Conscienceless and unashamed
All sinners in a way
The fox is always wicked
At the butt end of each day
They are the wild children
Put on earth to be
Atoning for their past lives
In their true integrity.