I live above the Dark Prince, and he likes his bassy beats.
His bass shakes my bedroom, and I have nailed down my seats.
He is British and white, yet he thinks that he can rap.
He keeps me up all night, so “sleep” is just a nap.
He dabbles in all sorts of media, among them guitar and mic.
He blocks our narrow hallway with his stupid dirty bike.
He slams the doors and shouts at his girlfriend,
Or maybe those screams are from his blaring TV, but I really can’t pretend
Not to hear the crashes and the yelling,
But who knows? It’s not very compelling
When his lyrics are a farce and his beats are something lacking.
“Enough is enough,” he shouts with some unoriginal musical backing.
He rhymes something with “poker” and then he records it.
He listens to it again and again—the sound of his own voice, he hoards it.
More than anything, I would just like to sleep.
I have to work tomorrow and appointments to keep.
This PhD won’t write itself, and really it’s just perturbing.
So I called Lambeth Noise Control, but they thought I was disturbing
Their three a.m. tea, which apparently could not wait.
They really were not interested that this noise happens so late.
They said, “an officer will call within the hour,”
And if they had warned me, I would have put some flour
In the oven to rise into a big, moist, ornate cake,
Because when they called four hours later I was no longer awake.
Another night, I called again, asking them to please hurry.
They assured me they would call within the hour, and told me not to worry.
I waited, and sure enough after one solid hour they called.
When I told them the noise was over, they were less than enthralled.
We hung up, and the noise started again so I called them back once more.
They said an officer would call me within the hour, like I had heard before.
Ten more calls and they didn’t budge, just the same.
I think that instead of working, they are involved in some kind of game.
Maybe it’s World of Warcraft, since they are all at their computers.
Perhaps it’s outdoor hide-and-seek with two-wheeled light-up scooters.
Maybe they watch films, a marathon of Lord of the Rings.
Or possibly a drinking game, beer pong or Kings.
I hate my neighbor, from the bottom of his hooves to the top of his pitchfork.
If I had been there when he was born, I would have killed the stork.
He is angry and scary and so very loud.
What happens to council tax money when such a thing is allowed?
My neighbor is so British and so very white.
His wasted hopes to be a rapper keep me up all night.
The Streets only happened once and hopefully never again.
I hope he returns to trolling the River Styx so all of this would end.
But worse than my evil neighbor who materialized from Hades,
Is Lambeth Noise Control, who are slow to act and incomparably lazy.
If I could just bring the noise to them so that they could substantiate it,
Their job would be done, and Lucifer’s silence would be appreciated.
But here we are on Planet Earth, with no way of proving the occurrence of sound.
I could record it, but how to prove the time or decibels? It would be quite profound.
What to do, what to do? It is quite a conundrum.
But when I tell them the gruesome details, they find it all rather humdrum.
I tried the police, I tried the landlord, and neither of them would have it.
Lambeth Noise Control are the only source of respite.
Well, I could give up and just try to get some sleep,
But where will I get the time when I am buried so deep
In my busy schedule of reading, writing, seminars and classes?
I could follow the example of those people who spend their lives parked on their asses.
Wait, that’s what I’ll do, I’ve got it! I know just the way to get some sleep while getting paid to patrol
The noisy streets of Lambeth, I’ll join Lambeth Noise Control!
What I am saying, if you haven’t begun to tell
Is that I live above Satan, a neighbor from hell.
He lives on the ground floor in the same building on the same road.
I live just above him, and it isn’t just a load
Of bullshit that he won’t let me sleep.
I wish that “within the hour” was a promise they would keep.
But even that is far too long, for noise is intermittent.
If Noise Control had to live this way, they wouldn’t be so flippant.
I have tried earplugs, pillows and cotton balls.
Nothing can block his sounds which shake the walls.
If Noise Control could just scooter over here during their hide-and-seek game,
They could see and meet him, and put a face to the name.
But best of all, they could stop him from being such a nuisance
By slapping him with a fine so high he buckles from the weight of their puissance.
Five thousand pounds, a letter of warning, a threat of eviction, anything to make him stop.
Because if I have to take care of him myself, I’m going to sodomize him with a mop.
*Photos from National Lampoon’s Splog, The Glow Company, BBC News, and Carlisle.
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