Legend of the Red Fox
A red troublesome fox who did often turn tricks—
A vulpine so fine with verve in his gait—
He found himself flustered when deprived of his fix;
He floundered and fretted, searching to sate;

His cure unconcoted, the fox made his own mix—
Three frog-footed dogs whose legs numbered eight—
A half-dozen cat eggs; parchment inked with a six;
Feathers and gold somehow equal in weight;

The cold cauldron he mixed with a few careful kicks— 
No hours had passed, and yet long did he wait—
The fox bundled the brew between bunches of sticks; 
Unable to drink, the mixture he ate;

He felt he was melting, delivered unto the Styx,
And to the hard-ons of hell, to those demon-y dicks;

Though disturbed and perturbed, he was still a red fox—
His thirst intrinsic; incessant; innate—
His power to take castles and towers of cocks;
His meaning momentous; a predestined fate;

His family fondness; an affliction, a pox—
The one thing on which a Tod does fixate—
An unending need to help one off with one's rocks;
Whenever in heat, a fox does await;

The land of his stranding was devoid of all clocks—
Infernals eternal, he was their mate—
And they fucked him in front of the souls at the stocks;
From there to the gates, the seat of the state;

Where the Princes of Hell locked the fox in a box—
After rivers of cum came the keys to its locks—
Yet when offered return (and a ride from an ox),
In the palace of phallus did stay the red fox.

-Charles Michael Averin