The Folks Upstairs

My apartment’s very old.
The walls are cracked, the drafts are cold,
The windows stick, the toilet leaks,
The ceiling in the bedroom creaks,
And I don’t even want to think
About those creatures in the sink.

And yet I go on living here.
I sign the lease year after year,
‘Cause when my upstairs neighbors screw,
I hear everything they do.

The woman loves to vocalize
With wild and ecstatic cries,
Begging, as she hits the top,
Fuck me! Fuck me! Please don’t stop!

Her boyfriend gives a bearish grunt
With every thrust inside her cunt,
And when he gets into his groove,
Their squeaky bed begins to move.

It sounds like (as it scrapes the floor)
The sawing of a two-by-four --
Voo-bah! Voo-bah! Never stopping,
While the mattress springs are popping.

And all the while I’m lying there
With my fingers you know where.
There’s never any question whether
The three of us will come together.

You know, I’ve never seen their faces
Out in any public places,
Never visited their flat
Or spied them at the laundromat,
And yet I just can’t help but feel
The three of us have something real.