Wheel poem

An evening sound is manifest, The rumbling of the bins. The neighbours are a trundling, Their plastic and their tins And sometime in the morning There ll be a mighty growl; The big recycling juggernaut Passing on the prowl. The bins will turn their somers

An evening sound is manifest, The rumbling of the bins. The neighbours are a'trundling, Their plastic and their tins

And sometime in the morning There'll be a mighty growl; The big recycling juggernaut Passing on the prowl.

The bins will turn their somersaults, Their contents will fall down, And off will go the monster To another part of town.

What of those hungry green-tops Abandoned at the gates? Owners' return will feed them, With newsprint and paper plates.


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Pity the poor old black-lids, No useful role for them; Only the depths of landfill, Their contents to condemn.

We need to shout from housetops: Give us the 1, 2, 3! With all the proper wrapping, We'll be as happy as can be!

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Olive Newman

Saffron Walden

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