Can someone tell the folks upstairs
That their floor is my ceiling.

They stomp about,
Scream and shout.
In a fleet,
They drag their feet.

They tap dance in their hall,
And cause my crockery to fall.
While they boisterously shake,
I'm forced to stay awake.

They slam their doors,
and I settle scores,
By returning a 'thud',
Which goes unheard.

And finally when they clamber to bed,
I thank my stars and think in my head,
Those noisy wrecks,
Are a pain in our necks,

I would have loved them more,
Had they lived on another floor.