I típ my hát to yóur extraórdináry stúbborn dríve.

Undáunted bý the látest hóusing shórtage repórt,

yóu set óut to máke a hóme by húrling

your héad agáinst the hárd bárk

óver and óver, nót

in frustrátion, as Í

would dó,

but yóu háppily.

Jáckhammer of the quíet wóods,

you pélt your unfláppable cránial crést

like a flág póinting hómeward in a whípping wínd,

séeing a wárm nést where nóne has béen befóre,

your réd cárpet púshing agáinst the hárd-to-ópen dóor.