The Eviction of Mr. Ivy

With his thick, brown, hairy legs, He had climbed the back of an old white barn. As his knotted, broad chest pressed Against the dry-rotted boards, He stretched his arms toward the sun Piercing through some nearby branches. Entangling his long fingers in those limbs, He rested his head on the black shingled roof Until his head became green and bushy. His body clave to the building when he saw me. He clinched when I tried to grab him And he did not want to come down. So, I cut him off by his hairy feet From among his crawling children, And I pulled and pulled him by the legs. Though he fought to stay and kicked to return, I tore him away from that old white barn And down he came with boards and branches. I laid him on top of a pile of old ivy vines And scraped his remains off the building.