A Rubbish Poem #18

A wet grey morn comes dawnin’,

Dawn, dawnin’,

On the scene.

Those Hi-Viz boys come rollin’,

Roll, rollin’

Down the street.

Their steel-toes tappin’,

Tap, tappin’

On black-soled booted feet.

An’ they’re all yappin’,

Yap, yappin’,

With any folks they meet.

Here She now comes a-roarin’,

Roar, roarin’,

Into view.

Man, you best be praisin’,

Praise, praisin’,

She ain’t roaring’ after you.

Her gears are grindin’,

Grind, grindin’,

On the waste we’ve left to eat.

She keeps on crackin’,

Crack, crackin’,

On each left-over tasty treat.

Our piled-high bins are fuelin’,

Fuel, fuelin’,

Her weekly rage.

She’s really burnin’,

Burn, burnin’,

Each crumpled, torn-up page.

Now She’s still fillin’,

Fill, fillin’,

All up with rage and mean.

An’ She keeps right on crawlin’,

Crawl, crawlin’,

Cos on these streets The Beast is queen.

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