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We love our neighbours only in the abstract.
Who ever lived that did not love a wall?
Each spring, when I repair my section's boundary,
I make my fence an extra metre tall.
I'm perfectly content in isolation.
That bloke next-door, I don't want him to call.
He'd shake my hand with sycophantic vigour,
Then plaster muddy footprints round my hall.

Presumably he'd ask me for a cuppa.
(I'd serve a cuppa vinegar and gall.)
He'd bore me with his comments on the weather,
Delivered in his idiotic drawl.
And would I join his mates next "Sat'day arvo"
To watch grown men pursue a little ball?
I'd sooner gouge my eyes out with a teaspoon,
Or mash my toes and fingers with a maul.

By God, he'd try beguiling me to help him
Rake up the leaves when they begin to fall.
He'd introduce his bloody wife and children,
Who doubtless dribble, holler, nag, and squall.
I'll fortify my line with spikes of iron,
And that, I hope, will hamper and forestall
Such utterly unwelcome dropper-inners.
Good fences make good neighbours, after all.