Sylvia Fairley: Neighbour From Hell

My house is well matched, for it's semi-detached -
   a desirable dwelling, next door;
it looks so serene, such an intimate scene,
   who could ask for anything more?

But beyond the front gate there's a climate of hate
   where my neighbour is ready to strike,
for the back of my car's just a smidgen too far
    in the space she's reserved for her bike.

Then letters ensue, for this is her cue
   to swamp me with venomous phrases,
she'll bang on my door at twenty to four
   in the morning to blow me to blazes.

I'd like to insert, in a place that would hurt,
   the spike on the end of my flute,
but before I can try, my car takes her eye
   and she keys it from bonnet to boot.

But then I offend, though I never intend,
   when reversing, it's such an ordeal,
It goes out of my mind that her bike is behind
   and I flatten it under my wheel.

After that she's on fire and she slashes my tyre
   and she gives the windscreen a thump
and before I know what, she's demolished the lot
   and my car's only fit for the dump.

And listen, oh pray, to the things that I say,
   The moral of this is a warning:
if your neighbour's bile has risen, just smile
   and wish her a very good morning.

Shake her hand if you like — don't run over her bike —
   try inviting her over for tea,
Give her chocolates and flowers, send her heavenly choirs
   and with luck you'll avoid World War Three.