The small naked puppies who whimper against the bitches,
The small sopping children who creep to the ditches.
But when the moon is run like a red fox
Cover to cover behind the skies;
And the breezes crack in the trees on the rocks,
Or stoop to flutter about the eyes
Of one who dreams in the scent of pines
At ease:
Then would you not go foot it with Sarah’s Girls
In and out the trees?