With Mine Own Petard by Ambrose Bierce

Time was the local poets sang their songs / Beneath their breath in terror of the thongs / I snapped about their shins. Though mild the stroke / Bards, like the conies, are "a feeble folk," / Fearing all noises but the one they make / Themselves -- at which all other mortals quake.

Now from their cracked and disobedient throats, / Like rats from sewers scampering, their notes / Pour forth to move, where'er the season serves, / If not our legs to dance, at least our nerves; / As once a ram's-horn solo maddened all / The sober-minded stones in Jerich's wall.