I sit poised behind my computer screen
and look out over the top, through the window
to the house across the street.
There’s something going on over there,
If I sit here long enough I’m sure I’ll see what it is.
Don’t tell me I have a problem with being nosey.
I think they’re drug dealers. No really, I think that’s it.
The cars come and go all the day long.
Well really I think there may be two or three,
but I’ll sit here all night if I have to.
Just to hear their drug dealer song.
Don’t tell me I have a problem with being nosey.
There’s an alabaster sky - that‘s right, I digress.
I always wanted to say that, but I can‘t figure out what that means.
Or maybe I’ll just say a cuss word to shock you and get your attention.
Or maybe I’ll tell more about my neighbors,
so I‘ll continue with my wale.
And my grey hair shines in the softness of the night.
And in the darkness I sit with my DEA persona.
So I want to find out if the drug dealers suffer a drug dealers plight.
Don’t tell me I have a problem with being nosey.
Or Maybe it’s a house of Ill repute,
a whore house I guess you’d say.
They never wave or say hello as they practice their stealthiest journey from
their car to their home.
They creep inside to hide the reality of their existence. Who are they and
where did they come from and more important to me is why are they here. That’s a
question for all of us don’t you think. Why are we here? Why are you here?
Don’t tell me I have a problem with being nosey.
And a harvest moon hangs lonely in the Mohican sky,
ushering in the coldness and snow.
So it becomes a winter mystery as they shovel their walk and move the snow in
piles on each side of their drive.
Their visitors cover their faces as they climb over the heaped up snow.
Look, they’re leaving in their supped up racing car. Just who the hell do
they think they are.
Look, one of them waved as if to say hello.
Maybe this thwarts my theory of who they might be.
Maybe they’re not double naught spies after all. I guess they‘re just being
sneaky. What else could it be?
Don’t tell me I have a problem with being lonely - I mean . . . sneaky,
I mean . . . nosey. Oh well, I guess you can tell what I mean.
Where are you Sigmund Freud?
and look out over the top, through the window
to the house across the street.
There’s something going on over there,
If I sit here long enough I’m sure I’ll see what it is.
Don’t tell me I have a problem with being nosey.
I think they’re drug dealers. No really, I think that’s it.
The cars come and go all the day long.
Well really I think there may be two or three,
but I’ll sit here all night if I have to.
Just to hear their drug dealer song.
Don’t tell me I have a problem with being nosey.
There’s an alabaster sky - that‘s right, I digress.
I always wanted to say that, but I can‘t figure out what that means.
Or maybe I’ll just say a cuss word to shock you and get your attention.
Or maybe I’ll tell more about my neighbors,
so I‘ll continue with my wale.
And my grey hair shines in the softness of the night.
And in the darkness I sit with my DEA persona.
So I want to find out if the drug dealers suffer a drug dealers plight.
Don’t tell me I have a problem with being nosey.
Or Maybe it’s a house of Ill repute,
a whore house I guess you’d say.
They never wave or say hello as they practice their stealthiest journey from
their car to their home.
They creep inside to hide the reality of their existence. Who are they and
where did they come from and more important to me is why are they here. That’s a
question for all of us don’t you think. Why are we here? Why are you here?
Don’t tell me I have a problem with being nosey.
And a harvest moon hangs lonely in the Mohican sky,
ushering in the coldness and snow.
So it becomes a winter mystery as they shovel their walk and move the snow in
piles on each side of their drive.
Their visitors cover their faces as they climb over the heaped up snow.
Look, they’re leaving in their supped up racing car. Just who the hell do
they think they are.
Look, one of them waved as if to say hello.
Maybe this thwarts my theory of who they might be.
Maybe they’re not double naught spies after all. I guess they‘re just being
sneaky. What else could it be?
Don’t tell me I have a problem with being lonely - I mean . . . sneaky,
I mean . . . nosey. Oh well, I guess you can tell what I mean.
Where are you Sigmund Freud?