Ordinary language is all right.
One could divide humanity into two classes:
those who master a metaphor, and those who hold by a formula.
Those with a bent for both are too few, they do not comprise a class.
Wake, peep, work, sweep, creep, sleep, repeat.
There's one worker, an obnoxious, artlessly profane, belligerent complainer, who I'll be glad to hear the last of. The wall is almost up, the summer of constant annoyances outside my window is almost over. But I could take maybe a little bit more: throwing a piece of metal into the house, and shouted back at from inside, the complainer, alone out in the yard with hardly anyone to behold him, ridiculously, taunts: 'What are you gonna do about it? What are you gonna do about it?' He keeps repeating himself. 'What are you gonna do about it?' Finally! Some action! I'm willing to let this play out.
But, no, no one else wants to play his game. Everyone goes back to banging on things and ignores him.
The repairmen have reached the stage of the wall-rebuilding project where they bang on things, and that's all, which is great.