Sunday morning, half past eight.
I'm dreaming deep, life feels great.
Then, how can I live?
That horrible sound kills me.
That neighbor with the drill, he never stops.
He never will.
Every time I try to chill,
he shows up with that drill.
Ceiling shakes,
my coffee spills,
thanks to that neighbor with the drill.
Monday night, I'm in the bath,
candles lit just doing math.
On
how many hours he's been at it,
does he even own a mattress?
That neighbor with the drill,
like thunder from the windowsill.
Is he building a rocket ship,
or just another curtain clip?
My peaceful plans he always kills.
That neighbor with
the drill.
Maybe he's lonely,
maybe he's bored,
maybe he's working on a secret floor.
Should I knock and offer tea,
or run away and let it be?
That neighbor with the drill.
He's kind of loud, but means no ill.
He's building dreams, or fixing fate.
But why must it be so late?
I'll dance along against my will, to the beat
of that drill.