The seats are hard in our court yard,
Because they're made of metal.
But here is where they sit and spit,
And here is where they whittle.

Some are old, so I am told,
And don't have much to do.
But there among, I see some young,
Who also sit and chew.

A knife that's clean and also keen,
And one that has some metal,
Is always found and passed around,
By those who sit and whittle.

A cedar stick that's big and thick,
Is carried by each one.
When they sit down and start to frown,
They've only just begun.

Some will lie and try to buy,
Some will swap and trade.
They love a knife, just like a wife;
And they have got it made.

The shavings fall around the wall,
With each stroke of the blade,
And piles abound upon the ground,
Which should not have been made.

Those who sit must also spit,
Regardless of the sign.
That it is near, they do not care,
And never pay a fine.

So time is free as all can see,
To use it as we choose.
For we can work or we can shirk,
Or we can win or lose.

-John M. Shelley, 1916-1973