Perturbia in Suburbia - a Poetic Roar on the Folks Next Door

Borrow trouble for yourself,
if that's your nature,
but don't lend it to your neighbors.
Rudyard Kipling
(1865 - 1936)

As I stepped out to grab the mail,
I caught some sights that made me wail.
And yet, I lived to tell the tale,
Although my home is now for sale.

My next-door neighbor, Mr. Schwartz,
Who works downtown in city courts,
And congregates with high consorts,
Was on his porch in undershorts.

Across the street, Bud Overton,
Played target practice with his gun;
He called his shots, "Four, three, two, one!"
And sent my puppy on the run.

Meanwhile, just three houses down,
The Tylers had gone out of town.
A dozen teens looked like to drown
As kegs dispensed a liquid, brown.

Then, suddenly, a cry was heard,
But not from animal or bird.
It was a sound bizarre, absurd,
That came from old Miss Mallanerd.

A winged creature crossed the street,
It darted back and forth, offbeat,
And settled in her twill loveseat,
Beside her dainty stockinged feet.

"What's shakin', Mama?" cried the fowl,
Just like a suitor on the prowl.
My spinster neighbor shook a towel,
And then her cat began to growl.

The parrot flapped his wings and fled,
And left his droppings on my head.
By now, bewildered, seeing red,
I chose to market my homestead.

I cannot sell the place too soon.
My neighborhood's a sick cartoon.
No longer my resort, cocoon,
And all this happened before noon!