Men banging, machines clanging,

thumping the drains, laying new water mains,

it's kicking my brains, I'm going insane,

 

why don't they just take it all away,

like down some quiet country lane?

 

Ripped concrete, concrete ripped,

Digger grasping, claws stretched clasping,

Clearing the old like cutting cheese.

Oh someone PLEASE!

 

Drains

mains

brains,

insane,

quiet

country lanes.

 

 

The front of my house all lined,

Out and mapped in white red, white red uniformity,

like candy coned delights spread out in columns.

 

Traffic held, moving like snails,

linked together like a deranged monorail,

Grinned at by the yellow overalls,

and subterra workforce, and frustrated drivers -

All seem to be staring as I walk down my street, outside my front door.

 

Banging and clanging, clanging and banging,

pneumatic drills hanging nimble on short fused fingers in glove.

As they change the water from hard to soft, or from soft to hard.

 

Drains

mains,

brains,

insane,

Quiet

country lanes.

 

Turn of key, thank God!

I close the door and chaos is left behind me,

But an earthquake starts shattering, battering away in my floor,

disturbing resident spiders in the corridor,

a glass of water, my shelves and ornaments,

And above all my patience and the framed picture on my wall:

a cottage in water coloured solitude;

Now having laid,

 

drains

mains

brains

insane,

all the way down

its' country lanes.