Poem: Next Door by Henry Lawson

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!
   That 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 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.

First published in The Bulletin, 18 February 1915