The Wall

I stay on this side of the wall, Where the wind is sharp, And the stars shine. I go about my daily chores With fervor and promptitude. Cutting the grass, clearing the fallen leaves, And letting the vines hang on the wall. I am happily discontent. But, when it comes climbing over the vines, Precariously, to my own side of the wall, My precious side of the wall, I become unhappily discontent. Lightning thunders with admonition, And the morning light shuns me. And before I can discern my malcontent, I find I have broken down the wall. I cast my blubbery eyes upon the broken pieces, Hurl a few of them around, At nothing in particular, and prostrate, Hoping for mercy. And when the snot dries up the next day, I pick myself up from the stone cold floor, Set brick upon brick, And build the wall again.