Tins in the Alley

I wrote “Tins” about a sad situation that went down in Clare, concerning a man from Sligo who filled his unofficial home and nearby alley with unwashed food tins. He wasn’t an official tax-paying resident, and he was squatting in an abandoned house; yet he frequently filed complaints (neighboring pub was too loud, Christmas lights were too bright.) The town actually responded to him, because I suppose small communities thrive when they try to accommodate/abide all residents. Well, the poor guy had constant, outsized requests. Until he died. Then he didn’t complain anymore.
With his cans and his cats, And a house full of rats
The man from Sligo keeps watch
From his drive in the alley, He spies lads and lassies
The Christmas lights crowding his thoughts
If those twinkling bulbs, Could be dimmed and the rows
Of the houses were quieter still
Then the Leprechaun House, Where the man sits and pouts
Would embrace him as no one else will
Some wishes are granted, Like sweet social dances
With different parts working as one
So the town took the bulbs down, And muted the pub sound
And now the man in the rat house is done.