Whenever Im 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 isnt a stretcher, there isnt a stick,
Nor a mat that belongs to the floor;
There isnt 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 nightbe 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 cant say, being no one of note,
Why she glares at my odds and my ends,
Excepting, maybe, Im 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 hasnt the soul of a louse;
And theyve got no respect for Next Door!
They dont give a damn for Next Door.
