The Fox Hunt

( to be read at a galloping pace )

We’re off to find, pursue and grind then catch the wily fox,
he’s been busy in the game reserves diminishing the stocks.
Setting off at crack of dawn, we’ll search and find the scent,
then chase him till the cows come home, we simply can’t relent.

[Come now let’s be candid, I’m sure you will agree,
the hounds now in attendance are the finest pedigree.
Employed for their persistence, in waging war of wits,
hungry for a conquest they will rip the prize to bits.]

“Are all of you assembled? then off we go!”.

Clip clopping down the high street,
whilst we’re pouting our parade,
we cloak our lust for blood beneath a pestilence charade,
passing through spectators, the dapper suits in tow,
sit upright in the saddle looking down on those below.
Certain city migrants, grimace with dismay,
as we reach the edge, go through the hedge,
the hunt is underway,

“Tally Ho!”.

Advancing into countryside, harrowing the turf,
obstacles are mastered as we roam upon the earth,
hawthorn, gates and protesters encountered on our ride,
are assessed instantaneously and taken in our stride.
It’s so exhilarating to be chasing in the hunt,
discovery’s seduction, allures you to the front,
feel the chill that surges through, creating nostril flare,
it’s fresh and unpolluted, it’s invigorating air.

We’re galloping majestically to chorus of the hounds,
we’re covering vast acreage with measured leaps and bounds,
first we’re going this way, then we’re going that,
we have approximation to exactly where he’s at,
but just as we are warming up, pursuit comes to a halt,
fox’s clever strategies the underlying fault.

Whilst canines are indulging in their frenzied foraging,
we take a welcome respite from the intense following.
Criss-crossing energetically, scouring the moss,
purpose seems to dissipate, the pack are at a loss.
[You see.
The things that are required for this endeavour to succeed,
are endurance, adrenaline, and a trusted steed,
Oh you must excuse me, forgive my paradox,
it’s essentially significant to also have a fox.
“ARTIFICIAL SCENTING!, perish such a thought,
surely you can understand, it simply isn’t sport.
Look I simply haven’t got the time for you to remonstrate,
it’s bad enough we’ve lost the scent and have to sit and wait”.]
Could it be the blighter, has given us the slip?
as thoughts drift to renewed attempts the bugler lets rip.

“Tally Ho!”.

There’s the ruddy rascal with his bushy taunting tail,
he’s heading for the sanctuary, that’s in the yonder dale,
a labyrinth of warrens, which registers a doubt,
for should it be he gets there we will never get him out.

“Come along, drive them hard,
spur them on,
SPUR”.

Reaching the horizon, no longer is he eyed,
but the hunt is in it’s full and awe inspiring stride,
enthusiastically we sprint up over turned and furrowed field,
destiny’s determined that his final fate is sealed,
but as we burst over the slope imagine our dismay,
a fence that wasn’t there has been erected in the way.

Completely unexpected,
the hounds are unaffected,
but as for those astride another story is to tell.
Those seasoned in the chase,
approached and jumped at pace,
but those approaching gingerly, unfortunately fell.
Undeterred by incident, etiquette’s maintained,
it‘s insignificant how any injuries obtained,
the minimum necessity we crucially require,
is dogged perseverance through whatever should transpire.
Leaving those that flounder, immerse yourself in thrill,
we’re reaching point of closure and converging for the kill.

“Tally Ho!”.

You can predict with credence
now they’re snapping at his heels,
that he has ate the last of any game or poultry meals,
with rampant breath and failing strength
they’re ready to expunge,
nipping at his flagging flesh, he takes a final lunge,
straight into an awaiting hole, alas it is too late,
the hounds are promptly merciless,
they grasp and seal his fate.

As we arrive there’s blood and guts and pieces everywhere,
but as we wade amongst them we find remnants of a hare,
the unsuspecting leveret, it seems, was rather rash,
awakened by the fox, his inbred instinct was to dash.
Normally his antics would have led a merry dance,
but with opened jaws assembled,
he never stood a chance.

Now the fox has gone to ground, he’ll soon be up and running,
so tell me was he lucky,
or is he simply cunning.