The Suburban Fox Poem by Marilyn Shepperson

Comes out at evening from his lair
In a pile of old tyres
That are part of the rubbish
In the local scrapyard
Trots into town, scaring the odd cat
That's also out on the prowl
First stop is the garden
Of a well meaning old lady
To bolt the bread and milk
Mistakenly left out for hedgehogs
Then over or around the dividing fences
To the one where a well stocked
Bird table is to be found
Bacon rinds, more bread and some cheese
Left over fruit cake as well
By the time the fox has dined
There is not a scrap left for the birds
Who would have visited here in the morning
On now down the road
Sniffing and looking up carefully
At the row of dustbins
Left out for the refuse collectors
To see if any lid is loose
He finds more than one and is easily able
To knock the lid to the ground
He is quite used to the clangour, it sets up
And ignores it, as he searches and feasts
On chicken and bones and other meat scraps
By now he is actually full fed
He sets off once more, through other gardens
A roundabout route back to his den
On the way, he hepls himself to tinned cat food
Also left out for those prickly gardeners friends
And he would eat one of those, if he could
But there isn't one to be seen
Once safely back in his pile of tyres
He washes his face and his paws
Before settling down, his brush wrapped around
To sleep away the day, till evening once more.