Muckers

Twenty men stand watching the mucker's.
Stabbing the sides of the ditch
Where clay gleams yellow,
Driving the blades of their shovels
Deeper and deeper for the new gas mains
Wiping sweat off their faces
With red bandannas
The mucker's work on . . pausing . . to pull
Their boots out of suckholes where they slosh.

Of the twenty looking on
Ten murmur, "O, its a hell of a job,"
Ten others, "Jesus, I wish I had the job."