A Hoopla Inside the Chicken Coup, La

my what a lot of hoopla inside the chicken coup, La: 
foxes in amongst the crew create a bubbling feather stew; 
dip in, dip out, they take and flout, shake it all around, about; 
then turn tails, away to flay, before returning later on today.

never strengthening the wires, had led to these actions most dire:
now a perimeter with laser guns is forming in my mind, my hon’,
or something that is not impossible, outside the realms of dreamossible:
a sensible straightforward plan, to ensure fox is beaten by man.

but simple plans are not my forte, I like to roast slowly not saute,
and so I schemed a complex scheme, to boil them down with steam,
not literally, you understand, though on the other hand,
one large wide boiling moat would my aim neatly float.

instead I turned to trench warfare, from fox holes I would stare,
and wait for our foxy foe, to unleash on him much woe,
whilst hidden underneath the grass, ready to rise and bite his arse,
so as to put them off my birdies, via a manner most sternly:

I set up rope and snap traps, deep holes hidden by flaps,
that I would trigger, before letting off a snigger;
there was an electric fence, the ability to make fog most dense,
spoiling their vision and sending them into pots for missen.

or so I had hoped, and so the foxes doped
me, made me think, tricked me with sly winks,
so that I thought my fight had been well fought
but through that awful mist, on me they sorely pissed.

and so I tasted the meats of complete and utter defeat,
totally outboxed by the fleet footed fox.
and thus the hoopla carried on, and i tried to tarry on
but, alas, to no avail, my chickens i have failed.