His dog craps in my garden

to the sound of metal rock.

His kids creep round my greenhouse

scrawling balls and giant cock.

His wife is bruised and beaten

all around the fucking clock.

His preferred weapon of choice

is to hurt and maim and shock.

 

Home from church on a Sunday,

he has a bonfire burning -

pitchforking rubber tyres

and dead meat that is turning.

I whip the washing in quick

(You see that I am learning),

while he stares over my fence

his face a mass of gurning.

 

I swear his head has two horns

that protrude like little bumps.

His chimney coughs and splutters -

a sulphurous cloud it pumps.

When he laughs my cats screech loud,

and their hair falls out in clumps

as shelves and windows rattle

and all my best china jumps.

 

All hell broke loose last Monday

a plague of flies he released

I called the cops in anger -

for a little while it ceased.

I want to sell my semi,

so please call to view at least.

I live at six, six seven

I’m the neighbour of the Beast.