Whenever I’m moving my furniture in <br />Or shifting my furniture out— <br />Which is nearly as often and risky as Sin <br />In these days of shifting about— <br />There isn’t a stretcher, there isn’t a stick, <br />Nor a mat that belongs to the floor; <br />There isn’t a pot (Oh, my heart groweth sick!) <br />That escapes from the glare of Next Door! <br />The Basilisk Glare of Next Door. <br />Be it morn, noon or night—be it early or late; <br />Be it summer or winter or spring, <br />I cannot sneak down just to list at the gate <br />For the song that the bottle-ohs sing; <br />With some bottles to sell that shall bring me a beer, <br />And lead up to one or two more; <br />But I feel in my backbone the serpentine sneer, <br />And the Basilisk Glare of Next Door. <br />The political woman Next Door. <br /> <br />I really can’t say, being no one of note, <br />Why she glares at my odds and my ends, <br />Excepting, maybe, I’m a frivolous Pote, <br />With one or two frivolous friends, <br />Who help me to shift and to warm up the house <br />For three or four glad hours or more, <br />In a suburb that hasn’t the soul of a louse; <br />And they’ve got no respect for Next Door! <br /> <br />They don’t give a damn for Next Door <br />.<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/next-door-2/
