5. A Builders Lot

Your basic builder
Belt and braces
Big black boots
With thick black laces

All in denim
They bend down
A flash of flesh
Old ladies frown

A concrete mixer
Orange turning
Scraps of timber
Bonfire burning

Stacks of bricks
Some are breeze
All smoke fags
They all wheeze

Days half gone
They ask for sub
Now all the builders
Fill the pub

poem by David Threadgold (2008)
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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