To the tenants upstairs,
I just wanted to say that if we have to listen to you dropping clay sculptures on the floor or banging out bronze plates or whatever it is you’re doing at the un-sun-godly hour of 3 a.m. one more effing time, we are seriously going to call the authorities. We get it. You have a battle axe. We all have a battle axe. It’s the freaking Bronze Age. Shut up about it already!
We’ve tried being friendly. I’ve tried bonding with you in the labyrinthine tombs over the animal husbandry we’re all into. But I just can’t take it anymore! I need to sleep! I’m a farmer! A pox on you and your sheaves. May your wheat wilt and your sheep be skinny-bellied.
Your worst nightmare if you don’t tone it down!