Neighbours Poem by Robert Melliard

There was a family in our street
whose house was never painted,
and their garden was unkempt,
as if they had no real respect
for neighbourly commitments.

We looked down on them a bit,
pitying their lack of funds.
It wasn't till some decades on
that we heard how they'd travelled,
round the world, all summer long.

I remember now, they came back with a tan,
soon washed off by English showers.
Most of us just saw their run-down home,
and didn't realize that their lives
were much more interesting than ours.