Complaint Upon A Faulty Smoke Detector

High in the center hallway
An anxious smoke alarm
Blurts a fume and doom alert
And prompts me to disarm
The cursed chirping thing.

An ancient bromide holds thus:
Where’s there’s smoke there’s fire,
But upon a close inspection,
Here there’s none nor neither 
But the cursed chirping thing.

So, mount the shaky ladder,
To stop the bleeping beep,
Swap the dying nine volt cell
‘Til you cannot hear a peep
Of the cursed chirping thing.

High in the Himalayas,
They burn their frankincense,
And monks sit still and meditate
In perfect reticence,
Without a chirping thing.