[FOsen]

My neighbour’s always fancied he’s a poet.
Perhaps he is, he’s got a book or two,
and Lord, is he at pains to let you know it.
He prattles like no one you ever knew.

But I can tell you that the next-door bard
can’t do a simple chore or run a farm;
once, when he set a buzz-saw in his yard,
I thought for certain that he’d come to harm.

Today we re-set boundary stones, and all
He did was fumble—clumsiness unending.
“Someone there is that doesn’t love a wall,”
I said, to needle him. “You’ll soon need mending.”

He gets a look. At first I think he’s ill,
but no, he tells me that he's “got to work,”
then takes off through the orchard, down the hill.
Boy, was I glad to see him go, the jerk.

Frank