There once was
an artistic fox
Who used every
tool in the box.
He could fashion
a scene
From grapes and
ice cream
Or some cheese
and an old pair of socks.
He would paint
upon any device,
Be it bricks or
paper or rice.
He drew such
acclaim
That word of his
fame
Crossed jungles
and deserts and ice.
He could
embellish the end of a pin,
Or daub on the
side of an inn,
Create vistas of
glee
On the bark of a
tree;
Tattoo bliss on
a square inch of skin.
But the fox always
failed to take heed
Of the envy that
talent could breed
From those with
less flair,
Who hadn’t a
prayer,
At beating the
fox in such deeds.
Such was the
vinegar fly.
A sour and
miserable guy,
Who declared
fox’s art
Not worth a
fart,
A tasteless
slice of art pie.
The fox fell
into despair,
That such an
opinion be aired.
To have such a
jerk
Belittle his
work,
Was more than an
artist could bear.
Inflamed by such
a complaint,
In a rage he
threw all his paint,
At windows and
doors,
On ceilings and
floors,
Without pause or
any constraint.
‘Good Heavens!’
his greatest friend screamed.
‘Such great work
I have rarely seen!
Such emotion,
such style,
Your best piece
by a mile!
You’ll go up in
the whole world’s esteem!’
The vinegar fly
was disgraced
And never again
showed his face,
While the fox
was adored,
At home and
abroad,
As a masterly
artistic ace.