Grate, just grate. Nay – crate. Here’s a poem that will probably not make sense to anyone but me.
As fast as I can fill them up
The hill takes on a steep incline
And when at last I see the top
Down rolls this boulder fiend of mine
And years ago did I reverse
This pattern often, mirror’d back
Removing things like I’d rehearsed
Until the boulder swept its track
My consolation is the mass
So not to make too much a fuss
Of muscles built upon this ass
who spends his days like Sisyphus.