I don’t know what it is.
I live the life of a Riley.

My foot is less than twelve inches.
My yard ends abruptly at my lawn.

I take a mile and move an inch.
I have no basket for my eggs.

I have no cupboards for my fat.
What cupboards I possess are bare.

I’ve never known the fat end of the wedge.
My face stays the same despite the gust
changing direction.