While The Billy BoilsSearchWhenever 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.