by Nick Gisburne
He spies upon his neighbours, much too much
A dirty, disagreeable old man
Beyond the wall, beyond his greasy touch
The two of them know nothing of his plan
He waits and watches, creeps around the fence
And listens at the windows when he dares
The notes, the files, the journals, detailed, dense
A record of their personal affairs
But somehow, in the silence, in the night
The snooping goes irrevocably wrong
Awakened by a noise, he flicks the light
To find them standing where they don’t belong
They smile, they sneer, the husband and the wife
And thank him with a special gift: a knife
