Satyr Tales

Twisted stories to amuse and confuse.


September 2017

Micro Fiction: Naughty Fox

Fresh Local Lunacy Direct From the Funny Farm. Personally I blame the great Dr. Seuss.


Naughty Fox in white mits and socks,

Trotted among the ragged rocks.

Naughty fox in socks spies a plump chicken,

Pickin’ at some grittin’.

He licks his chops,

And spits on his mits

Rubs them together

And dreams of devouring tasty chicken bits.

Plucky chucky pecking at some grittin’s,

Spies slinking naughty fox in mittens

So Plucky Chucky preps the coop

And opens the emergency escape chute.

She readies the leccy’ fence

And shoos away all her flocks.

Crawling ‘neath the wire

Naughty fox in socks gets nasty shocks!

Naughty fox lay sprawled out on the grass

Waiting for the electrical current to pass.

Eventually he came too with a nasty joltage

His fur all fuzzy on account of the voltage.

But before he could gather his wits

And flee from this accursed farm

Heavy boot falls stomp closer

And he is snatched up by his mittened arm.

Naughty fox in mits and socks gets got,

Furious farmer locks him in the farm yard stocks.

Given no breads, no waters, no meats

His head hung low staring down at his feets.

Shamed in front of the community

He is pelted profusely with mouldy old crops.

Until a government official happened by

And declared he’s pulling out all of the stops.

He argued that Fox be treated more humanely:

Given his own private cell and three square meals daily.

Access to a Gamepalm console and a huge plasma screen TV.

A job peeling spuds and doing the other inmates laundry.

Poor farmer was aghast and said to plucky chuck with a curse

I’ve been charged with cruelty to animals, I’m to be evicted or worse

I’ve nothing in the larder and there’s no more grittin’ for thee

So tonight’s dinner will have to consist of plucked Plucky Chickadee.

photo credit: daveumich Fox Kit via photopin (license)


Guest Writer in the Woods: Richard Coppin

Ahoy-hoy good readers,

Thank you joining me for a very special post.

I’d like to welcome a very good friend of mine, a multi-disciplined writer and artist, who graces my neck of the woods frequently.

It was absurdly difficult to narrow down which piece to present to you dear people. However, I finally went with a poem which I believe anyone can enjoy and makes me think: Awwwww, you old romantic!

You can take in his other pieces-shorts, novels, biographies, illustrations, scripts etc via this hither linkage:

Without further a dalliance I give ye, Mr Richard Coppin’s: The Bus.

The BusMan waiting for a bus, considers fingers, numbing
As through a foggy morning he sees his bus is coming
Its breaks squeal and hiss as feet clamber out and in
And taking up his seat he too, recumbent, glad of warmth, despite the din
Of early riders, half asleep, as yet not energised for work
Compelled by need to carry on this life and rise above the winter murk.

Continue reading “Guest Writer in the Woods: Richard Coppin”

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