Bin Scrapers

Fall, Fall And keep on falling until You splatter and drip On the head of a man in a chequered shirt. He's bin scraping, picking and trying to get in. Sweat runs down it's black exterior. Gum is chewed again, as it feels sweet, sweet moisture once more. Him and a friend find a crack And go at like gold miners. Sharp pangs cut through erogenous graffiti... ...then the bin asks what is it all for? Suffocated by cigarette ends, enough to make a pack of Marlboro's, Albeit a wet one. I don't question the scrapers and stealers, I question the onlookers. There contents not much better than mines. I think I'm just bitter. It's clear what I'm supposed to do: Fill up with rain water and let the litter float down the streets.