He’s a little blind,
His body’s stunted,
His skin is thick,
And he sometimes sticks
His pointed snout
Somewhere where it’s not wanted.

He can’t see it all,
He gets things wrong;
He rarely knows
When he sometimes throws
A pile of dirt
Up on a perfect lawn.

He’s poor with words,
Can’t stand the silent shouting.
He’s optimistic still,
And hopes his hill
Will be washed away
Before it becomes a mountain.