Day dawns bright, skies on fire,
Night retreating on a funeral pyre.
A resurgent sun flames new light,
Holds firm against the black of night.
The cold, the dark, both slip away
Revealing in their wake a chill Tuesday.
Emerging now from the dying gloom,
Adorned in tabards bright as a nuclear bloom.
Their cheer and joy reflects this fresh day
Forwards they press all work, no play.
To remove our guilt and collect our sins,
March those hi-viz men,
the Lords of the Bins.
22 October 2019