The Smokey Stalemate

On a quiet cul-de-sac lived Mr Rae, With neat little lawns and cars on display. One winter’s morn, with a nod and a grin, He fitted a stove — to keep warmth in. But up from his roof, oh, what a sight! A chimney so black it swallowed the light. It loomed like a tower, a soot-covered spear, And blotted the sky for neighbours near. They whispered and grumbled, formed a plan, To chop it down — brave woman and man. Yet guarding the gate with a growl and a snort, Stood Hirsty the dog — their smoky escort. So now they all stew in a foggy despair, Ash in their teacups, soot in the air. For none can advance, and none can retreat — It’s a warm-hearted, smoke-hearted, stalemate complete.