I wouldn't be a naked-footed fox.
The night is cold, the moors are filled with wet:
The world is warmer when we're wearing socks.
A floating, spider-hanging husk; a box;
an urn; a bone. A home awaits us yet.
I wouldn't be a naked-footed fox.
We've all a due recorded on our clocks.
Obamacare can't help us with that debt.
The world is warmer when we're wearing socks.
Those fast red flames, their tails ash-tipped shocks
are snuffed; we don't remember to forget.
I wouldn't be a naked-footed fox.
We're buried in our jackets and our frocks,
and caught and clothed by history's gauzy net.
The world is warmer when we're wearing socks.
Black fear does not outlast, in hens and cocks,
Fantastic Mr. Fox's silhouette.
I wouldn't be a naked-footed fox.
The world is warmer when we're wearing socks.
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