Day’s Work

And how the sweat rolls down my face,
and how the air grows thick, 
and how I long to leave this place,
and how for home I'm sick.

And now my arms are trembeling, 
and now my grip grows weak, 
and now my belly's rumbeling, 
and now's almost the peak. 

The time has almost come to go, 
the time when traffic's slow; 
the time to head back to my home, 
the time when time can roam.