The poem
Walking around in the park Should feel better than work: The lake, the sunshine, The grass to lie on,
Blurred playground noises Beyond black-stockinged nurses - Not a bad place to be. Yet it doesn't suit me.
Being one of the men You meet of an afternoon: Palsied old step-takers, Hare-eyed clerks with the jitters,
Waxed-fleshed out-patients Still vague from accidents, And characters in long coats Deep in the litter-baskets -
All dodging the toad work By being stupid or weak. Think of being them! Hearing the hours chime,
Watching the bread delivered, The sun by clouds covered, The children going home; Think of being them,
Turning over their failures By some bed of lobelias, Nowhere to go but indoors, Nor friends but empty chairs -
No, give me my in-tray, My loaf-haired secretary, My shall-I-keep-the-call-in-Sir: What else can I answer,
When the lights come on at four At the end of another year? Give me your arm, old toad; Help me down Cemetery Road.
I like this one, apparently a kind of sequel to the other Toad poem that denounced work as not being worth the candle. Nothing difficult here that I can see, very clear. Larkin seems to think work is at least better than being left to dwell on one's wasted life during some pointless retirement activity. Not much better though, probably. I doubt if there's a jewel in the toad's head.
Work is just a way to pass the time and you have nothing better to do in the intervening period between birth and death so you might as well let it help you down cemetery road.