In the name of the father, the son, and the holyghost, you'd think a rosy faced Irishman--
such as I must appear to you now,
after trial and tribulation,
scant bucket of mortar and improper hoe;
none but abundance of frustration--
could build a wall of bricks at a rate more propitious than that which I've proceeded apace!
Looking up from what had been the yellow pages,
"I was just about to offer by way of a second greeting, a hearty 'progress!',"
having acknowledged one another on my way to the booth, you see.
"Jenga in reverse,"
Jests he, neither resigned
nor speaking unequivocally.
A green-swampy pause (unseasonably warm for November and foggy to boot)...
A few blue blocks further two men, anonymous lift,
slather mortar upon, and level indigo blocks;
one top 'nother. Through the blocks sprouts conduit, violet.
Red sheathed wires may come through the conduit at a latter date to illumine the secondary
(though most oft used by the homeowner)
entry and the space between, to be concealed.
A black tarpaulin conceals now, the second wall.
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