The Refuse Collection

The morning wakes 'neath winter skies Still dark save for the lamps that shine, As two men roll the dustbins down Each pathway to the kerb, One works the left one works the right The wagon trailing far behind, Yet inching ever closer till The hush it does disturb. Side by side the bins in pairs Now line the bleak and empty street, Like statues formed of rusting steel They stand as if in shame, Each bears the number of the house That's painted on their battered lids, Some bent so they now barely fit Their poor misshapen frame. They wait for workers brawny hands To lift them to their shoulders broad, Then tip the trash into the truck And place them down again, The houses lit by amber light That flashes on the driver's cab, The wagon's engine roars so loud While bin men toil and strain. The crunch and crash as bottles break And cans are crushed into a bale, Within the strong and mighty jaws Which chew the rotting cud, One bangs the side it moves along As bins are dragged back into place, Then stops again to gather more Discarded filth and crud.