Stung

I was sitting by the window of my little bungalow
when I heard the garden gate being opened down below.
To my horror what I saw was a filthy-looking man
with a stained and tattered raincoat and a Gypsy Traveller tan.

In his hand he held a rope of heavy braided cord
attached to a Bull Mastiff, a massive dog good lord.
After only several paces this monster cocked a leg
then squatted down and shit, enough to fill a keg.

My lovely crazy paving was crowned with steaming dung
and I was paralysed as if I'd just been stung.
"I've come to clean your garden" said the man with a nicotine smile,
"Fifty quid to you old son; and for another fiver I'll also clean that pile."