The Night Soil Men

After dark they pay their visits by arrangement-
The night soil men dressed, as you'd expect, in
Black coats, frayed, eaten up by grubs and moths.
Upstairs, ladies and gentlemen turn gently in
Pan warmed beds, drizzle spitting lightly against
The crown, spun glass windows of the house.
The furniture is light so it can be moved easily around
Following the light whether from a gas lamp or the moon.
They pray not to let their home be invaded by rats
Scurrying under tribunes, leaking out of gutters
Falling out of cracked and crumbling Bungeroush.
In the dining room magenta walls ease digestion
As a harpist lazily plays eyes wandering upwards
Across the minute details of the centre piece plaster rose.
Meanwhile, nocturnal effluent disposal specialists listlessly
Clean and clear the dung and dirt from cess pits, privies
Cudgies and thunderboxes with their thick veined, soil stained fingers.
Trudging with a loaded barrow house to house they are not
Nocturnal gardeners using candles to speed the growth of rhubarb,
They are turd stranglers or drain dredgers scuffing their
Worn out boot heels through the sodden night.
They are the type who would be likely to mistake a drugget
For a fine wool carpet, their eyes never fully adjusting to light.
It is a sort of self protection in their soiled line of labour.
If you ever hear them beavering away in gutters after dark
It may be the sound of men feeding from or fighting against the night.
It is easier to stuff horse hair in your ears and wait for morning,
For the first sounds of cluttering maids clearing out the grates,
Filling them again with fresh coal by seven.
The night Soil men now somewhere underground sniffing for smoke,
Waiting for sunlight to clean thoroughly the cracks.