I invited my friend, Julian, to surprise me with a theme and a noun around which I must base my poem on. As an added layer of difficulty, the title must be an anagram. Here are those words:
In the hood, the locals say hodd,
Food is not food, food is fodd.
Down by the old farmer’s plot,
Dogs shout joyfully in the wind.
Fodd, they smell and come tumbling down
Around the large bay, over the sod, the lot,
Leaping like flying fish in a flodd,
A torrential pour of paws, leaps and trods.
“Get out of my sight!” An old dog yells,
Looking at a puppy with hatred, who swelled
his eyes with fright, away the delight
but not without a fight.
Desperate might from the bottom of his heart despite
his inferior height!
The dogs find the food, the fodd,
the loot, no, lott. They share. Not.
They fight and bite, a sight to remember.
Passers-by look and see a whirl of dust,
pieces of chicken, cake and cod.
They say “Look!”
The head dog is onto the cod
but the little puppy dog does not let up the fodd!