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