A lone mountain breaker chips away
At his morning over stick toothbrush.
He has the whole mountain to break
But only a few years on his bald head.
His hammer sounds like squirrel’s cry.
He is not man-god’s blessed squirrel
With its nuts stashed away for winter.

If only a canvas tent on his old head
Has less holes letting in blazing suns
Beating his bare naked head by day
And winter’s chilling winds by night.
If only he has more years on old head
So he can chip away entire mountain
With a fully assured job satisfaction .

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