Folklore

Reynard the Fox was in the barnyard
up to his old tricks again,
roosting around the restless hens,
reaching for eggs between their legs.

The clucks, shrieks, squeaks, and squawks
woke Farmer John long before his clock.
He lit the lamp, grabbed his gun,
crept 'round the barn before Fox could run.

The door swang open, the hens rustled and sang,
but just before the fatal "bang!"
Reynard dashed beneath the farmer's feet.

The trickster'd tricked, the farmer tripped
and pulled the trigger as the shotgun flipped.

Reynard ate poached eggs that night.
The farmer left behind two girls and a wife.

That's the story my parents told
me when I was only five years-old,
about the death of Uncle John,
at that point, he was six years gone.

I heard he was quite the trickster too,
but it's hard to tell those myths from truth.
Tails of hitching a tractor to loose a tooth,
or the time my father said he threw

a handful of bullets into a bonfire
just to tempt ol' death's ire
or maybe he had an awful desire
to build and burn his own funeral pyre.

Years later, I heard another story,
of a night Uncle John felt mighty sorry.
His wife found him in the basement, sitting
alone with his gun, the chamber spinning.