Interlude ~ Next Door

Whenever I’m moving my furniture in Or shifting my furniture out— Which is nearly as often and risky as Sin In these days of shifting about— There isn’t a stretcher, there isn’t a stick, Nor a mat that belongs to the floor; There isn’t a pot (Oh, my heart groweth sick!) That escapes from the glare of Next Door! The Basilisk Glare of Next Door. Be it morn, noon or night—be it early or late; Be it summer or winter or spring, I cannot sneak down just to list at the gate For the song that the bottle-ohs sing; With some bottles to sell that shall bring me a beer, And lead up to one or two more; But I feel in my backbone the serpentine sneer, And the Basilisk Glare of Next Door. The political woman Next Door. I really can’t say, being no one of note, Why she glares at my odds and my ends, Excepting, maybe, I’m a frivolous Pote, With one or two frivolous friends, Who help me to shift and to warm up the house For three or four glad hours or more, In a suburb that hasn’t the soul of a louse; And they’ve got no respect for Next Door! They don’t give a damn for Next Door.