The horny-handed sons of toil

Roll up their sleeves and till the soil.

They function as a perfect foil

For lovers, hidden in the trees,

Who cool with pleasure in the breeze,

In huddles which nobody sees.

 

They wander later back to home,

Each one tired from their labours;

Here they will subsist as neighbours,

Friends, dispensing valued favours,

Gossips, sneaks and late-night ravers.

These roles change only when they roam.