In a quaint little bungalow, at the edge of the town,
Lives Pauline, our heroine, with hair of silver crown.
Eighty-five and spry as ever, fiercely independent,
She loves her cosy garden and her paving, oh so splendid.

Oh, Pauline, Pauline, the foxes made a plan,
To steal her quiche and fish pie, but she’s a wily gran.
With traps and tricks and cleverness, she made the foxes flee,
Pauline’s garden’s fox-free now, her domain in victory.

The foxes with their beady eyes, they watched her every night,
From under hedges, over fences, in the pale moonlight.
She feared they'd ambush her one day, while fetching from the shed,
A homemade pie, a quiche or two, her freezer's pride and bread.

With her back garden paved so nice, she’d gaze with pride anew,
But those pesky foxes ruined it, with droppings and a chew.
So Pauline hatched a cunning scheme, she paid a man in traps,
To catch the furry bandits, and perhaps avoid mishaps.

The trap was sprung, the fox was caught, and taken far away,
Pauline’s smile was broad and bright, she’d won the battle, hey!
Now she watches carefully, for any new invasion,
But her garden’s safe and sound again, a fortress of elation.

So here’s to Pauline, brave and bold, with freezer full and heart of gold,
Her garden’s now a peaceful place, where foxes dare not show their face.
A tale of triumph, wit, and might, of how one woman won the fight,
Against the foxes in the night, Pauline’s garden now shines bright!

The neophyte, baptized in smiles,
Is laughing boy beneath his oath,
Breathing no poison from the oval mouth,
Or evil from the cankered heart.
Where love is there’s a crust of joy 
To hide what drags its belly from the egg,
And, on the ground, gyrates as easily
As though the sun were spinning up through it.
Boy sucks no sweetness from the willing mouth,
Nothing but poison from the breath,
And, in the grief of certainty,
Knows his love rots.
Outdo your prude’s genetic faculty
That grew for good
Out of the bitter conscience and the nerves,
Not from the senses’ dualizing tip
Of water, flame, or air.
Wetten your tongue and lip,
Moisten your care to carelessness,
For she who sprinkled on your brow
Soft shining symbols of her peace with you,
Was old when you were young,
Old in illusions turned to acritudes,
And thoughts, be they so kind,
Touched, by a finger’s nail, to dust.