There's a woman lives next door to us
For whom trees are "mess",
Their leaves are litter, I guess,
And dogs are just "noise"
She is doomed to champ at the bit
And occasionally loathe the place she lives
As she has lofty shady plane and sycamore
To the front, and behind beyond the end
Of our gardens a school field skirted
With elegant silver birches, more sycamores,
May and chestnut and a gnarled old oak..
I try to tell her, but you love the birds,
And feed them. The trees are where
They live, and but for the dogs -
A terrier both left and right of her -
The neighbourhood cats would prowl and pounce,
Your garden their jungle,
Kill the creatures you feed
Not even for food but for fun.
But no, trees are mess and dogs are noise
And she has no peace (she claims)
Because how can she sit contentedly
Whilst all the while seething and clamping shut
Her mind, her jaw and her heart
At everything outside her control?
I wouldn't want to sit next to her
When she's watching TV,
Especially The News, would you?