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 concúss 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.