Neighbours

It is almost seven-thirty as I sit down for me dinner,
Weight Watchers chicken curry (I could do with being thinner).
But before I even taste it - a bang, a crash, a boom.
The man next door is hammering, and it’s shaking the whole room.
Every night he’s at it; I don’t understand at all,
His flat is fricking tiny, is he smashing down the wall?
And when I knock upon his door, he answers in his pants,
The hammer in his hand, he stays silent - in a trance;
It is really rather creepy, and so I let it be.
Maybe I should blame myself for being cowardly.
This block of flats reverberates with never-ending racket;
I’m losing sleep, I’m on my knees, I’m desperate, just can’t hack it.
Twelve stories high, a wall of sound, and me stuck at the bottom.
There were good times when I moved in but now I have forgot ‘em.
Upstairs has parties every week, their music’s shit and loud;
I never get invited (they’re not my kind of crowd).
Screaming babies all around, they never seem to cease,
Cry and bawl throughout the night, will I ever get some peace?
But what is this? The babies sleep. At last will it be silent?
No. Here go the pair at number six – their shagging sounds quite violent.
They’re in a vicious circle - of petty arguments
Then making up, so noisily, with orgasms intense.
They don’t offend that Mrs Bird, a really sweet old dear;
Eighty-four, deaf as a post, she really cannot hear,
Turns the volume to the top on her ancient television.
This has to stop, it can’t go on, I’ve come to a decision.
I’m moving on, departing, escaping out of here,
One swift move and all my problems simply disappear.
I now live in a cottage, in the middle of a field
Not a soul for half a mile – you can see why it appealed.
Things are going really well, I’m keeping to my diet,
But I’m having trouble sleeping, it’s just too bloody quiet.