I purchased a property in Prospect Street,
Down the bottom end, where never mind Brexit,
Traffic will still descend to the exit,
On the right hand side,
At the bottom of the hill,
In prospect Street.

I live down the lower end,
On the opposite side of the parking parade,
On the one way downward drive that is Prospect Street,
I'm a practical person, polite poor, but popular,
And pleased I live in Prospect Street,
I'm even happy out the back with pots and cats.

Step out the back door and immediately greet my neighbour,
A prospective person just like me,
Who won't be beat up by the woes, the traffic cones,
The paint pots, out to keep parking slots in Prospect Street,
Parking is not permitted in Prospect Street on bin day,
It has been known that bin men, moan and groan,
Lifted and thrown, prams, cots, plastic green containers,
All used for preserved parking plots.

Even cars, heaved, humped and dumped far out of sight,
So the Dennis dump truck,
Can drive down the middle,
And not on the right hand side,
In prospect Street,
Even postgraduate studying PhD's,
Professors, erudite plumbers just like me,
Have to clear are cars, kids, cats and dogs,
On Tuesdays, bin day, in Prospect Street.

They say that once, raving, raging refuse personnel,
Were heard to shout, oh f****** hell,
As they grappled a piano,
The air was blue, language obtuse,
As they slipped and fell,
The 'le Joanna broke loose,
At the top of the hill on the right hand side,
In Prospect Street.

Wing mirrors inwardly folding,
Cats and dogs, stealthily patrolling,
Under parking,
Mum's maneuvering pushchairs,
Kids on skateboards,
It's completely barking, mad,
But I love living in Prospect Street.

Step out your front door,
You've done it many times before,
And run the risk of being frisked by the immediate traffic,
It's kind of kinky,
Yet manic,
In that moment of heat,
On the right hand side,
Prospectively putting foot forth into the street.

This time you make it,
You look up and pray,
An overhead seagull shits on your face,
Outside your own private place,
Your present, pleasant property,
On the hill that is Prospect Street.

Paint peels from scratches on the offside of cars,
The permanent scars from the irreverent drivers,
The bizarreness of living down Prospect Street,
They don't pay any penalties, they have no soul,
Ha, that one scraped by, but drove straight into that scaffold pole,
A******, comes cry from high up there,
That builder doesn't look best pleased to be fair,
As he hangs from the rails by the safe boots on his feet,
Paying the price of working on properties in Prospect Street.

The pretty previous proprietor of my property,
My abode,
In Prospect Street,
So I'm told,
Lies peacefully deceased,
My Prospect Street poem ends on a low key,
For without looking left,
She stepped out into the street,
And was run down by a piano!?