DISCLAIMER: BEWARE OF POTTER USAGE. IT CAN BE DEADLY IN STRONG DOSES.
It's a short songfic with Harry's feelings about Privet Drive, using the song Little Boxes, by Malvina Reynolds, ©1962.
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Little boxes, on the hillside
Little boxes made of ticky-tacky
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same.
It was always the same for them. Always routine. Get up in the morning at precisely 7:00 AM, brush your teeth, get dressed, go eat the same old breakfast: bacon, toast, and eggs. On Sundays, they would go to church at exactly 9:30 in the morning. Like clockwork: never a cog out of place.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same.
Even the neighborhood was uniform. Little square prisons, lined up all in a row. Twelve rows of little boxes, straight as soldiers. The husbands would leave for work at the exact same time, leaving the wives at home to do the exact same housework.
And the people in the houses
All went to the university
Where they were put in boxes
And they came out all the same.
Sometimes, the sameness would be unbearable. It would get hard to breathe, like a big blanket of uniformity was smothered on me.
And there's doctors and lawyers,
And business executives
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same.
They tried to make me one of them. They tried to convert me from a beetle in a colony of ants. They tried to stomp the magic out of me, to take away my will and transform me into an unthinking suburban robot.
Little boxes on the hillside
LIttle boxes made of ticky-tacky
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same.
I left when the time came. And I'm never looking back.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same.