There once was a fox named
Box. He lived on top of a horse.
Of course his horse was a generous
house, giving and moving and
feeding that Box. Box's orange
face and white trim stayed wind-
blown swishy and equine prim.
Hooves and claws, oats and paws,
the washing gets done at a gallop
sans jaws. Box and that horse
whose name always drops
run from the edge of the town
to the stops. Any good partner
would see that this works and
let these sweet creatures remain
with their shirks. No job for
the rider nor role for the ridden,
society of friendship and only
what's given.
Roman Ryan 