Gossips.

Some twenty houses all in a row.
They gossip all day long you know.
As I go past the garden gates,
To visit the pub and see my mates.
The windows whisper, 'There he goes,
No wonder he's got such a shiny red nose.'
'He's the biggest boozer in the road,
He even beats old Mother Joad,
She can down a pint of gin,
And ask for more with a silly grin.'
The chimneys you can hear above them all,
There he goes, He's heading for a fall.
Why cant he drink his beer at home,
But a pints not the same without its foam.
Even the roofs pour on the oil,
It really makes my poor blood boil.
My own front door gives me no peace,
Threatens to go and call the Police.
I've even thought of moving away.
It matters not what others say.
But I always seem to be in the wrong.
Perhaps the beer is a little too strong.
You know I don't want to leave my road.
My drinking doesn't bother Mrs. Joad.
As for the houses, what do you think,
Do they have to pay for what I drink.
You know if the windows weren't so clean.
They wouldn't know where I have been.
I'm going to get Parliament to make a law,
That windows are not to be cleaned anymore.
Then perhaps I can drink my beer in peace.
Without my front door threatening to call the Police.

by Bernard Shaw

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