Oh, hark! -and hear my tale of old –
‘Tis true in ev’ry way:
The ballad of the garbage truck,
A loud, machine-drawn dray.
The daylight barely paints the East,
The weary man just waked;
A stirring in the quiet air,
A song of metal brakes.
How now, my lads? What sings this sound?
What draws attentive eyes,
A-pressed against the window panes,
Or gathered round outside?
Oh, feel: the porch, the walk, the lane!
Oh, see: the living things!
They shake and dart in worried dance
Of what the daybreak brings.
The song exults effulgently
As it comes round the turn:
As refuse is o’erturned.
Majestic rolls the garbage truck;
Ungainly -yes, but true.
A dutiful collectioner
Of everyone’s snafu.