Asshat Neighbor

You wake up screaming at the property line,

Like you own every blade of grass that’s mine,

Peeking through the windows, watching what I do,

Got a loaded little ego and a point to prove.

You never wear a shirt, but you wear that gun,

Walking ‘round your kingdom like the war’s begun,

Beer in your hand and dirt on your skin,

That stupid tramp stamp showing where you common sense should’ve been.

Your dog hit the weed eater, thought it was a fight,

Got chewed up bad, all bark and no bite,

Now you tell that story like you’re some kind of hero,

While I’m choking back laughter because you’re just a zero.

Five-foot weeds in your backyard grow,

Nobody knows how far that jungle goes,

Smoke drifting over like a dirty little cloud,

Four-wheeler screaming when the whole town’s passed out.

You fire that six-cylinder with those pipes screaming loud,

Like a broke-down thunderstorm trying to wake the crowd,

Ripping through the darkness just because you can,

Drunk on gasoline and whatever’s in your hand.

And your wife comes marching like she owns the street,

In everybody’s business with a mouth on repeat,

Thinks she’s queen of the county, thinks she makes the rules,

Throwing cheap little judgments like a knife at a fool.

I see you staring,

I know you’re there,

Counting every footstep,

Measuring my air.

You watch like a hawk,

You wait for me to slip,

But I’m done biting my tongue,

I’m done taking your shit.

So keep your gun on your hip,

Keep your beer in your hand,

Keep patrolling your kingdom

Like some one-man band.

Ride your four-wheeler

Till the sunrise burns,

Keep staring across the line

Waiting for your turn.

You think that fence is a border,

Think that dirt makes you king,

But all I see is a backyard

Where the weeds own everything.

And every time your engine

Comes roaring through the night,

I hear a desperate little man

Trying to prove he’s right.

You call it your property,

I call it your cage,

Built out of cheap anger

And a lifetime of rage.

You can watch every move,

You can count every step,

But you can’t control me,

And you never will.

I’m sick of your staring,

I’m sick of your noise,

Sick of your wife

And her county-wide voice.

Sick of your beer breath,

Your smoke and your grime,

Your midnight machines

And your bullshit all the time.

So scream at the property line,

Draw your imaginary wall,

Stand there with your gun

Like you’re ten feet tall.

I’ll stand on my side

And let the whole thing show—

You’re not the king of anything,

You’re just the asshole next door.