THE ARTISTIC FOX

 

There once was an artistic fox

Who used every tool in the box.

He could fashion a scene

From grapes and ice cream

Or some cheese and an old pair of socks.

 

He would paint upon any device,

Be it bricks or paper or rice.

He drew such acclaim

That word of his fame

Crossed jungles and deserts and ice.

 

He could embellish the end of a pin

Or daub on the side of an inn,

Create vistas of glee

On the bark of a tree;

Tattoo bliss on a square inch of skin.

 

But the fox always failed to take heed

Of the envy that talent could breed

From those with less flair,

Who hadn’t a prayer

At beating the fox in such deeds.

 

Such was the vinegar fly,

A sour and miserable guy,

Who declared fox’s art

Not worth a fart,

A tasteless slice of art pie.

 

The fox fell into despair,

That such an opinion be aired.

To have such a jerk

Belittle his work,

Was more than an artist could bear.

 

Inflamed by such a complaint,

In a rage he threw all his paint

At windows and doors,

On ceilings and floors,

Without pause or any constraint.

 

‘Good Heavens!’ his greatest friend screamed,

‘Such great work have I rarely seen!

Such emotion, such style,

Your best piece by a mile!

You’ll go up in the whole world’s esteem!’

 

The vinegar fly was disgraced

And never again showed his face,

While the fox was adored,

At home and abroad,

As a masterly artistic ace.