I wish a fire would break out in the attics
Over the way!
My wasted form ought of itself to touch her;
My baker feels my appetite decay;
And as for butchers’ meat—oh! she’s my butcher
Over the way!
At beef I turn; at lamb or veal I pout;
I never ring now to bring up the tray;
My stomach grumbles at my dining out
Over the way!