GARBAGE

I'm staying in tonight, but there's garbage on the screen,
like a technicolour yawn, it creases up my spleen.
There's garbage in the Express and more garbage in the Sun,
I avoid the Daily Mail, but I've heard it's not much fun.
If I go down to my local, stick my head inside the door,
the bar's a graveyard of broken glasses, and there's garbage on the floor.
Garbage on the underground, garbage on the bus,
you get garbage across your head, if you bother to make a fuss.

Next door's cat's in the garbage, he's hunting for last night's skate.
Unless he keeps his whiskers out of my garbage, he'll end up being served on a plate.

You listen to a load of garbage, in the canteen, at work.
If you try to raise the tone of conversation, they label you some sort of jerk.
I like the word Garbage. I's relevant to everyday life.
The obvious common label, for anxiety, strain and strife.
It's all garbage when you think about it. From the cradle to the coffin.
The garbage they carry you into, and the garbage they carry you off in.

It's the same at the Job Centre, the garbage they try to spill ya.
They send you to work for a boss, and he almost tries to kill ya!
Garbage, garbage, garbage. What else is there to say?
To waste my time writing about garbage. I ought to be locked away!



CapabilityRed aprox 1986