Shelter is needed, feet do move. Foot after foot, impeded, by the oppressing grooves. Hills are high and mud does flow. Fluttering eyes do pass by a home with glow. Weary and tired, My feet do tumble on the rotten porch; I do feel a rumble. "Nothing more than a wild animal." I think to myself, "Simply trying to escape the rain, attempting to save himself." The dusty door is met with a shaking fist. Whoever resides here, I bet, can't be worse than an ankle cist. A worried and hurried voice does echo from inside the shack. Entering, I see a woman like a gecko with a hunch for a back.