Augustus Randolph Frederick Clark
Once owned a dog that wouldn’t bark.
He wouldn’t whine, he wouldn’t growl,
The one thing that he did was howl.

Now, every night the moon rose high,
A spotlight on the midnight sky,
That dog raced up into the hills,
And howled. It shook the window sills.

Sleeping birds fell off their perches.
Green leaves dropped from white-barked birches.
Winter howls stopped lakes from freezing.
Summer howls chilled warm air breezing.

Ms. Gertrude Rosewood Mumford-Park,
Lived right next door to Mr. Clark.
With regularity she phoned,
Complaining ’bout the dog he owned.

“I’d like to see your mutt shot, dead!”
Gertrude Rosewood M-Park said.
“His howls annoy the whole darn town.
A plague that’s worse cannot be found!”

Frederick Clark ignored her comment,
Familiar with Ms. Park’s resentment.
Next, the sheriff heard her protest,
“Even my dead husband can’t rest!”

So, Sheriff Bob asked Mr. Clark,
“Why don’t you teach your dog to bark?
Your other friends have begged and pleaded,
They want some sleep! It’s all that’s needed.”

Then Gertrude chimed, “This man needs jailing,
If he won’t stop his dog from wailing.
Those sobs are such obnoxious howls,
It sounds like flocks of screeching owls!”

Mr. Clark listened intently,
Posed this question, “Evidently,
You’d prefer that my dog bark,
’Stead of howling after dark?”

“Oh, absolutely! Yes, we do!”
Said friends, Ms. Park, and sheriff too.
“If you could stop his nightly yowls,
We’d bless the daily barks and growls!”

Augustus shrugged and shook his head,
“A bad idea,” is all he said.
“But you’ll still do it?” his friends cheered.
“Majority wins!” Ms. M-Park sneered.

Clark, he walked from town undaunted.
Gertrude Park got what she wanted,
“You best do it, Frederick Clark!”
“Don’t you worry. He will bark.”

So, then and there, that selfsame day,
His clever dog learned to obey.
He learned to growl, he learned to whine,
From early morn’ til supper time.

But fields of wheat have dropped their grain,
And for three months there’s been no rain.
The cats won’t purr, the birds won’t fly,
And not one cloud has sailed the sky.

The cows won’t milk, the hens won’t lay.
The sun shines less bright every day,
So bees don’t buzz, or flowers bloom.
The air is still and grey with gloom.

Without those howls, those midnight tunes,
The sky’s been black with fewer moons.
Which might support Augustus saying,
“When things ain’t bad, best leave dogs laying.”