The winter drains the warmth From every limb But blood climbs on a whim And sets below sunset The fox, it must devour It runs at first, then falters It's guilt and sin, it alters And succumbs to the flesh The spring is but a reason No better than any season Or any other day To feast on easy prey So close yet savory So within reach The fox runs prompt from hunger From primitive beseech A call to the abyss A howl to ward off thought It runs until the break of fast Is found amiss, alas and fought The fox is hunting mice For peace of mind and spirit It hunts for pride and merit But flesh may yet suffice