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
.
Next Door
Henry Lawson
(1)
Poem topics: feel, heart, house, night, respect, sick, song, spring, summer, winter, woman, soul, bring, glad, early, warm, floor, political, furniture, door, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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