The Smokey Stalemate — Doom Machine

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.