A flash of red, then it's gone. A snarl, a pause, then running along To a hollow, deep in a tree, Among the roots, rubble and scree Where several bodies lie side by side Mangled, twisted as if they'd tried to pull themselves apart when dead Here a leg, and there a head. All of them with one thing the same Murdered as the result of a game. But who was the killer, man or beast? 'Man' you say, 'surely, at least?' Do you want to know? See the truth? Find the culprit, examine the proof? It wasn't the farmer, earl or lord Or anyone else who got bored And decided to kill a poor little thing To feel themeselves a victor, a warrior, a king. But the fox itself, brutal and wise And this little hoard is just a 'guise For the rest of the dead are back in the pen. A dozen prime lambs and many a hen. The fox doesn't kill mainly for food And although its methods are cunnning and shrewd It kills for the sport, the fun and the game. Then disappears from where it came.