Where's Ya Bin Lately?

Where’s Ya Bin Lately? (or the tale of the bad-tempered domestic waste operative)

I’m up in the early morning -

You could say it’s up with the lark.

But all that I know is -

Outside it’s still bloody well dark.

The alarm sounds like a siren,

Right at the crack of the dawn.

I stumble straight into my clothes.

It’s another freezing cold morn.

Then I’m off down to the depot -

I can smell it before I even get close.

To meet up with the crew & the truck,

But it’s not worth holding your nose.

We put on our caps & thick leggings,

Together with some steel-toed boots,

And reflective jackets, thick gloves -

These form up into our business suits.

Then it’s off down the road to the first job,

Before the manager comes round.

That means parking for breakfast,

At this little café we’ve found.

It’s tea & it’s butties all round.

There’s banter & plenty of talking.

There’s no rush to get started,

On those miles & miles of walking.

The oldest bloke in the team is the driver,

The rest of us just follow behind,

Working at the back of the truck,

Dealing with garbage of all kinds.

The pay & conditions are poor,

So most of our bin-men are dross.

We’ve got no pride in our work,

In fact, I don’t give a toss.

We work our way through the streets,

Making as much noise as we can.

Nobody sleeps through our workings,

As we drop every bin with a clang.

We search through whatever’s left out,

To see if there’s anything worth keeping.

That goes into our special compartment,

And builds a fund that’s ours for the reaping.

Then we run through our reasons for rejections:

Bins that are too heavy for lifting,

Lids not quite closed or overfull -

Well it’s something we’re not shifting.

Bags at the side are not ours to do:

It makes it quite clear in the rules:

We’d be breaking our new contracts:

We just can’t afford to be fools.

  

Folks chuck away everything that’s messy,

And I don’t care what you think:

There’s no way it can be avoided -

Most of the bins really stink.

There’s rats and dead cats to look out for,

Cooking fats & things dripping with grease.

Watch as we leave a great trail of debris,

Right across the lawn you can follow with ease.

And don’t bother, or dare, to complain:

It’s really not worth your while,

Cause next time we’ll remember,

And leave all your trash in a great pile.

When the truck finally fills up with your rubbish,

We get a short break as we drive to the dump.

It all gets tossed into land-fill,

And lands with a ruddy great bump.

There’s short-cuts & some fiddles,

Too many for me to relate,

But we all go hunting for tips,

Some extra pay to create.

We let the chaps in the big houses

Talk us into shifting their trash.

We’ll shift anything you want, guv’nor,

Provided there’s enough cash.

But we’ve got to get through our quota,

Before we can knock off for the day.

The work is boring and relentless,

So we make sure we do it our own way.

And the toil is hard and it’s dirty:

We smell like the rubbish we’ve carted.

Everyone takes us for granted.

And recycling? – Don’t get me started!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016