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Wide eyed Willy with whiskers gone pale Stands taught, tight and tame as a muskrat’s tail Once snipped and stitched with a nimble hand Willy takes his place before hearth rug and fan
Barren brains aren’t bothered by woes of the field By wet winter wanderings and the spoils they yield Not by heat, hunger or hindsight of what is or what was Just by shadows that dance as the coals’ glow is lost
His friends stand tall on shelves high and low They stand there for hours as the stories go Just he sits down on hearth covered floor Moved by the mistress, that wished it were so
“His tint has gone shabby, he’s missing an eye!” “He’ll be less noticed there by the fireside” So down he was set, at the mistress’ bequest His once grand seat made all the more less
Now dust coats his fur that once shown like rubies And once on his paw the house cat did, yes, pee Poor Willy still stands and does so silently For Willy is glad that he just gets to be
His dead eye and twisted grin Might make most men’s mind turn sick within But heartily treasured, blanched pupil or not Is the dust fed body of the wily Willy Fox.
(I originally wrote this as a tiny story which consisted of just the last stanza, but then a story emerged of how the fox, after years of wear and tear, transitions from top shelf to floor and what it means to be inanimate. This could probably use a re-write and I wouldn't mind hearing a voiceover, pretty please) |
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