Interlude. Next Door
By Henry Lawson
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 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 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.