I’m gonna randomly turn up outside your house.
I don’t have a reasonable incentive to turn up outside your house.
But f**k it I’m gonna turn up anyway.
You know you know when I rock up at the manor.
Because I always slam my car door in a violently distinctive manner.
When it comes to turning up outside your house, I’m the best.
When I randomly turn up outside your house, I’m only gonna be wearing a pair of jeans and a vest.
I’m gonna lean up against a two-foot-high brick wall and fold my arms.
While sinisterly smiling at you through the window.
I’m gonna start ominously lurking around outside your house.
I’m gonna force you to unplug your landline simply by glaring at you.
I’m gonna drink a four-pack of beer outside your house.
And I’m gonna leave the cans on the wall.
I’m gonna be able to see a reflection of myself in the rapidly growing pool of anxiety-induced sweat materialising on your bony forehead.
You used to have a full head of hair before I started sporadically showing up outside your house.
And now you don’t.
I’m gonna make an obnoxiously loud phone call outside your house.
You’re gonna tell your children to play in the garden in the vain hope that they won’t be able to hear my bad language.
I haven’t been invited.
I’m not wanted.
I’m not needed.
And I’m not welcome…
But I’ll be there.
Looking at you while you're pretending to watch the tele.
