There's a Woman Lives Next Door to Us

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?