Next Door
Henry Lawson 1867 (Grenfell) – 1922 (Sydney)
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
.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 1:05 min read
- 57 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABABCDCDDEFEFGDGDD HIHIJDJD D |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 1,085 |
Words | 217 |
Stanzas | 3 |
Stanza Lengths | 18, 8, 2 |
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"Next Door" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 23 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/17865/next-door>.
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