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| Soul: |
I loathe this tenement. Such a façade must have had a union architect. It can't have been God. |
| Body: |
You again! You on the second floor! Bohemian! Communist! Why won't you learn to shut your door? |
| Soul: |
Why don't you cultivate a little tact? Your rudeness isn't worth so high a rent. (Why do I have to pay so high a rent? Why am I always forced to hide the fact I'm Heaven-sent?) The door is warped. Wouldn't I like it shut? I find the sounds of your infernal plumbing unbecoming. |
| Body: |
You talk of rudeness! Why make me the butt of your unearthly cheek? I'm sick and tired of cooking, cleaning, mending, all day long, just to be kept awake all night by song you call inspired. Forget, just once, to pay, accursed soul, and watch me skip to the Office of Rent Control! (My bones ache with hunting some device to force eviction.) How long must endure I this constant friction? |
| Soul: |
Friction! Such a word is much too nice. Last night, for instance, over your snores and sneers I tried to fetch the music of the spheres -- the one decent pleasure I can afford: I just retrieved one chord, one burning chord: the radiator burst, by God, and mice ascended the chandeliers. |
| Body: |
There he goes, in a poetic fit, as smug as Lohengrin. If he'd only quit trying to live up to being one of the Boys. Stop that eternal noise! |
| Soul: |
I wish I could afford to live alone! What would I give to move my bed around, or moon about in music till eleven with none to care if I was off the ground? It would be Heaven! |
| Body: |
I wish I could afford to live alone! What would a little privacy he worth! A place with a garden. O, a little earth to call my own! |
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