Barking - to the The Lady Up the Street

The lady up the street, so prim and uptight,
Counts the barks of my dogs in the dead of night.
Each woof, each howl, to her seems a sin,
While I find her complaints the true racket within.

Dogs must bark; it’s their nature, their way,
To speak of the moon or to greet the new day.
But people, oh people, could choose to refrain
From whining and moaning and spreading disdain.

Her voice cuts sharp, a drill to the brain,
Each word dripping venom, a ceaseless refrain.
So here is my plan, my silent retort,
A gift on her step, of the canine sort.

I’ll place it with care, a surprise so neat,
A present of poo from the dogs she can’t beat.
And if fate is kind, as she steps from her door,
She’ll know what it’s like to feel barked at some more.

So, bark on, my dogs, let your voices be heard,
For silence, dear neighbor, is sometimes absurd.
And as you complain, may you come to see,
That dogs will be dogs—but what’s your excuse, lady?