Foxes in Boxes [ Pileous Gox's Moxes ]

Come closer, my cuddlekins, hush now and hear, A whimsical whisper that tickles your ear: Of Pileous Gox, in a gangle-gilt coat, Who jigged through the greenwood all boggle-eyed, gloat. He crooned of the Moxes—grim goblins of gloom, Who lurked in the dapple-dark, mummled with doom. “O Moxes!” cried Gox, “with your snicker-snap jaws, You nibber and knabber with flibberty claws!” The foxes, sleek-spry in their bracken-brown fur, All pricked up their ears at his wobbulant slur. For Moxes were whispers, no fox ever knew— Just shadows a-wimple in Gox’s askew And fantoddled fancy. But still, he extolled: “Come hide in my boxes of cinnabar gold! With cushions of quiltweed and hinges of brass, They’ll keep you from Moxes who creep in the grass!” Now foxes are clever, but fears can misguide, They pawed at the boxes, then slunk deep inside. Their bushy tails drooped as the locks gave a click, While Gox in a gumptiony grin gave a kick. “Oh safety!” he warbled, “No Mox may intrude!” He hopped through the moonlight all dingly and rude. But hush—there were no Moxes, no snarling grim-beast, Just silence and starlight, no terror released. The foxes, ensconced, felt their freedom go numb, For boxes can baffle where fancies have come. No claws at the door, no fierce beastly roars— Just Gox in his madness, who chuckled outdoors. He twirled on a toadstool and winked at the dew, Proclaiming he’d saved them—but they never knew From what silly phantoms their freedoms he took, His folly a trap with a honey-tongued hook. O children, attend to this tippity-tale! When dangers are dreamt in a moon-muddled vale, A rescuer’s promise may jingle and coax, Yet leave you as snug as a snail in a box. So heed not each hobble of nonsense and fright, Look closely at shadows that dance in the night! For Moxes are phantoms, and folly can fox— Don’t trade your bright forest for cramped, crimson box.