Construction workers
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    With hard-hats orange and lunch pails swinging to
    and fro, construction men to their work go.
    Their thick arms bronze from sunlight fierce and bright,
    they bellow laughs and hail their buds on sight.
    Their chests are broad but all their knees are sore
    from marching through hard days of work before.
    Their tan and chiseled faces fast face front
    like statues on the building’s adornment.
    Climbed high above the bustle of the street
    they tramp along the scaffold-planks with booted feet.
    Under their drills the building rattles, groans;
    the office people strain to work the phones.
    Outside the windows, dusty clouds the hammer frees
    Mingling with righteous sweat, and twirled by cooling breeze.
    Safety jerseys in the wind flutter and dip
    Like herald-flags abreast a triumphant ship.
    Amongst the screeching tools and clanking hoists
    reverberate men’s husky tones of voice
    which toss instructions, warn with forceful shouts
    that joust and jostle each in battering bouts.
    Once punched out at day’s end, men drive home weary,
    quick shower, then recline in TV query.
    Preparing for morn’s work, as yet in sight,
    they sip a beer and smooch their wives at night.

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