Quickly cunning,
armed with a witted tounge.
Eyes of a murderer,
    with the rope already strung.
Coat of copper,
lying sweetly as it promises,
the appearance of a dog.

The fox feeds once again.

He runs through the brambles,
reminiscent of an open door.
Eats all the farmer's poultry.
His mouth waters no more.

As quickly as he came,
the bushes he now does part.
He has stolen a living.
He has stolen my heart.