Garbage Man

Remembrance of those odors pristine in the memory of the streets sheltered in the dark, Old shoes and dead meat, But one man's garbage is another man's treat, The garbage man knows you from the things you throw away, seeing your old TV that still works means you can pay, So when you leave your home and the garbage man's due, Make sure you lock your doors and take your VISA too, To dream all those possibilities are within your reach, Yet in the philosophy of garbage anything goes, And behind the restaurant with the sign that says, Eat At Joes, He eats his lunch with the flies and a putrid stench, Those old soggy french fries are his only companions cause he eats old onions, Yet in the hot summer day sweltering in the sweat smokin' reafer held past those memories lost in the distance, I can smell road kill cooking from sunlight, And noonday sun, Reminds me of my mountain momma's cookin', Mmmmm..... possum gravy! Slides down so easy with a piss warm brew, Free for the taking, Held only in the twilight zone, And if I keep writing at this mode, the little white men in their little white coats will come take me away, But that's ok as long as they give me pills in all colors, Red, green with grape juice, I won't try to escape to my palace of moldy fruit and dead mice, And there's always an encore of crickets and grasshoppers with a touch of roaches to top off the meal, But to switch from pills to such a sumptuous meal is a rotten deal, The decision hurts me head, I wish I was back in my bed, Because I can dream of a place so pristine, With pills and moldy green hot dogs, Where my hunger is assuaged for both, It doesn't matter that I'm caged, And now I'm watching the sunrise and hear the jailers coming up the hall, Calling breakfast time! What will they serve? Hmmm.... I wonder? Probably something bland, Cuz they don't know the true taste of real good food! When the slime trickles down your throat, This sting is what it's all about to a garbage man, All you need is the smell of rancid trout, And the twist of it all is this... Stay away from roadkill and garbage hills, Or you could be as twisted as we are without the use of pills. July 21, 2000 By: B.E. Whitehorn & Allan Perry Written January 25th, 2002 © on Aug 15 2002 09:58 AM PST, Billy E. Whitehorn    0 • 18 • 14