Its Friday and it’s four o’clock

At the gardener’s arms

And the boys are at the bench

Shirts off

Sun out

Baking staking hot

The beers are in

The smokes are out

The jokes are flying

And dying like swatted flies on table tops

But laughter pervades none the less

Across reddened sultry crowns and cheeks

Where bare bravado reigns

In the hope

Of topless golden skin

Like the amber nectar

They swallow down

In great heaving gulps