The Arguers

I have a couple of new next-door neighbours,

I think it's a Soviet girl and her brother.

They have two black dogs and black cars with Mafia plates,

Late arrivals were their father and their mother.

The weeks went by followed by many dog barking months,

When more arrived from an older generation.

Frequently you hear them argue― which upsets the neighbours,

Who would rather they stopped yelling foreign words of irritation.

There are three generations who live there at present,

Make it four if you count the Soviet girl's recent love child.

Oh and those two black dogs that sleep in the dirt,

Are now washing powder white― last night it rained.

A neighbour is approaching so I hope my words make sense,

But when I speak, they shrug their shoulders and roll their eyes.

Each time they always offer a similar response,

So I'm wondering if there's a chance that they're spies―

The other day I noticed government vans parked out front,

Then watched seven men leaving their property.

Seven guns in seven holsters, they were there to confront,

I'll be cautious but still wave and be neighbourly.

When they argue, they yell and smash plates,

Often the daughter is screaming, rattling the teeth in my head.

So damned unnerving how she gives us the shakes,

My poor dog Emma skitters under the bed.

I started a spy game which began as small potatoes,

By leaning some obstacles against the fence.

Here and there I tied microphones and mini-peep-hole cameras,

"So, let's have this Spy Vs Spy battle commence".

One night their dogs were constantly barking,

For no reason at all― just because.

I pulled out my laser light flicked a switch so it's flashing,

Hurriedly hurtling grenades of hot chilli sauce.

There was mostly silence, the house filled with darkness,

They're probably saving money on the cost of electricity.

Their walls were slowly dripping from hot chilli sauce,

I laughed from hyperactive fits of Aussie lunacy.

"Where is your conscience;" I yelled with a grin,

Before being pelted with chunks of putrefied pork.

My eyes began watering, my head took a spin,

"It's a real shame we can't have a neighbourly talk."

It was quite quiet early that following morning,

No Siberians, no black cars, no dogs, there were none.

Seemed pretty inactive and I didn't hear them leaving,

Done like a dinner, my new neighbours moved on―

"Dasvidania!!!"

John Stewart©2020