The fruit rolled by all day.

They prayed the cogs would creep;

They thought about Saturday pay,

And Sunday sleep.



Whatever he smelled was good:

The fruit and flesh smells mixed.

There beside him she stood,--

And he, perplexed;



He, in his shrunken britches,

Eyes rimmed with pickle dust,

Prickling with all the itches

Of sixteen-year-old lust.