Flatliners

I live in a flat, I'm not proud about that, and I rent it form Edinburgh city,
It's not very large, but it's good for the charge, but the neighbours?  The neighbours are shitty.
There's the guy down below, fairly quiet, you know, till he drinks with his mates Friday night,
Then it's pulsing rock rhythms and loud algorithms, until the small hours, and it's shite.
And the Russian next door, when not pacing the floor, sings the songs of the Red Army choir,
While the woman on ground, she excels at loud sound, and her barbecue smoke is quite dire.
And the kids out the back are on the attack, and they squabble and scream night and day,
Plus the council grass cutters are certified nutters, with their strimmers to cut down the hay.

So I sit and I dream, and I plot and I scheme, of a tiny fisher cot by the sea,
Where there'll only be waves, and no Donalds or Daves, and a life of pure quiet for me,
But knowing my luck, it'll all go to fuck, and I'll be invaded by dolphins with i-pods,
And they'll play no-stop Gaga, a familiar saga, from speakers they'll mount up on tripods.

So, it's goodbye to this life, I've had enough of this strife, and getting no thanks for my labours,
And the suicide note they'll pinned to my coat, will say, it wasn't the flat, just the neighbours!

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