Seven little foxes.
Four hounds, three boxes.
So we can already tell
that the vox is
repeating to us hell
found in a lack of four boxes.
That we still have yet to see
that could possibly be
hidden well beneath the olive tree
we never got to climb,
not to the fullest degree.
While a grubby hand at Fort Knox is
putting away yellow happiness
in yellow plated boxes
that could easily be used
for the four foxes
that wait for that end note covered in
brightly coloured phloxes.
They hold hands, grasp
knowing this moment could be--
is their last,
and we franticly scatter past
reason and past knowledge.
But when the hounds approach like oxes,
we get a better look and see
four hound-shaped boxes.
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