A Chatterbox on Lisa Foxx

 

 

Gad, Lisa Foxx, she is a fox

—And one ‘L’ of a pretty fox,

And so I voice in lauding vox:

Her beauty’s quite unorthodox:

As solitaire as flights of auks

Who share the air with white peacocks;

Extaordinaire as mighty rocs

Who wear their hair in bright dreadlocks

—All tearing over the Scottish lochs

Upon the vernal equinox!

 

Yet, rare as are these few ad hocs,

I dare to say these poppycocks

Cannot compare to Lisa Foxx

—In fact I do declare to vox,

No, au contraire I swear to vox

They can’t compare to Lisa Foxx:

Her beauty’s quite unorthodox!

 

So ignoring her dear mother’s squawks

(Who watches her like twenty hawks)

I move the ‘L’ from Lisa Foxx

To prove to you she isa Foxx.

Then in dementia  so praecox

(When romance blooms and courage balks)

I suffer sweet and tingling shocks

And dream sweet dreams of Lisa Foxx.

 

But truly, there’s no paradox

Between a ‘fox’ and Lisa Foxx:

A fox has long and lovely locks

Oh, long as lovely hollyhocks!

And yet a fox next Lisa Foxx

Is a clever, yes, but poor Xerox,

And really not of equal stocks

To lovely, lovely Lisa Foxx.

Why, the extra ‘x’ in sly Ms. Foxx

Just proves that she is twice the fox!

If gold is how you’d rate a fox,

Then Lovely Lisa’s pure Fort Knox.

 

But Piff! I’m just a chatterbox:

Love’s sentimental old jukebox

That sings one song that ever mawks:

The One, The Lovely Lisa Foxx!

 

And so each day when all the clocks

Approach ‘the hour’ by ticks and tocks,

I wend my way to her boondocks;

And shortly, after three love-knocks

(My knees, my knees you silly ox!)

I mend a sweet bouquet of phlox

And tender it to Lisa Foxx.

 

For I love the way sweet Lisa talks!

I love the way sweet Lisa walks!

Sometimes we walk for blocks and blocks

Along the jetties  and the docks, 

Ignoring all the bourgeois flocks

(In their silly little smocks and frocks)

And I buy her bagels topped with lox,

She in her chic designer socks.

 

So let lesser Romeos and jocks

Conspire in heat to lease a fox:

For though they hire a teasing fox

And thus aspire to seize the fox,

They’ll never acquire a squeezing fox

As pleasing as sweet Lisa Foxx.

(And to each troll who stands and gawks,

Dazed, on his soul I’ll blaze a pox

—To think that he’d appraise her hocks

And cast his gaze on Lisa Foxx!)

 

Thus when the morn sweet night defrocks

I’ll stand atop Love’s grand soapbox;

Then, dodging jeers and leering mocks

Of ne’er-do-wells and laughingstocks

Who spiel their lewd catcalling schlocks

And spin their macho come-on crocks

On spindly unromantic stalks,

I’ll shout! above the crow of cocks:

 

Dear world, sweet Lisa, she’s a fox

And one ‘L’ of a pretty fox,

And on the whole I’d have to vox:

Her beauty’s quite unorthodox!

 

 

O Lord, forgive the lifelong mocks

Of one thou know’st as heterodox.

Of all thy lambs in all thy flocks,

I praise thee well for Lisa Foxx.

And if, in praising thee this chalks,

Me up thy greatest paradox,

I pray Thou count me, for my mawks,

Thy born-again Foxx chatterbox:

Believing  Thou, in all thy flocks,

Made none so fine as Lisa Foxx.