(With apologies to W. Shakespeare)
But, soft! what smell through yonder window breaks?
It is next door-but-one, who have lit a fire.
Arise, foul smoke, and kill the evening air,
While the world fulminates at your super-twattery.
Nay, 'tis the Everard, who dwells next door,
Strutteth like Duce, worketh chez Peugeot,
Grilleth sardine against the privet hedge
That just divides our property from his...
Fortunately, a long time ago. He's probably dead of cirrhosis since. When he was standing up straight you could have balanced a pint on the jut of his gut.