Foxes hate those fancy-pant Darwinians
and O-so-clever bio-palaeontologists.
After they thought they’d given the hunt the slip,
it makes their blood boil to be told
that hounds of all kinds are their relatives.
An even lower blow to self-respect,
they gather Father Fox, their ancestor,
was no heroic large-fanged carnivore,
but rather that Ur-Reynard flapped
on ugly fins round prehistoric shores.
It’s more than they can take. They hold
their brush and mask as irrefutable
evidence of intelligent design,
their fine form never to be stigmatised
by hideous primeval fish.
They’re here on earth, they’d have you know,
by special measure, to beget and multiply,
to make a meal of every opportunity,
exterminating smaller animals
or, all else failing, digging worms.
– David Morphet 2010