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!
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