is an ankle biter.
He froths in a fanged rage
at humans, other canines,
dustbins, the moon and bicycles.
Mr Barker hates foreigners.
He guards the gate like a Gauleiter,
has a taste for bare-legged postmen,
lifeboat collectors, meter readers.
Jehovah’s Witnesses can’t believe their eyes;
they question the Creator
who put that head like a box of knives
on a scrawny mistake of a body.
Mr Barker bites the hand
that feeds or caresses him.
He terrorizes Great Danes,
Jack Russells, Rottweilers.
Mr Barker was in love for a day
with the poodle from number 23
but was beaten off
with a rolled up Daily Mail
before he could father
a dynasty of Parkers
or Boodles.