---

Henry Lawson - Next Door
Work rating: Low

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.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.