Night Workers
Well it doesn't really matter, if you have riches or you’re poor,
When you get that bellyache, you know you’ll be heading for,
That little house way down the back, where the comforts made for you,
So you can sit and read the paper, when there’s a job to do.
It doesn't really matter, if you eat ‘cray’ or caviar,
Or if you’ve downed a pie with chips; they travel just as far.
After your belly has been filled, then you must get rid of it,
And that's when the likes of me and 'Rusty', do our little bit.
You see we are night workers on a truck that pulls a tray,
The job we’re being paid to do, is to take your waste away.
So while you're sleeping soundly, to your 'little house' we go,
Come every week on Friday, to prevent an overflow.
Most roads in our little town are channelled, tarred and curbed,
So the drive is smooth and even and no spillage's occurred.
There was one road though unsealed, it is pot holed, windy, rough,
With two houses at the dead end, where two pans were quite enough.
One rainy morning we decided on, the easy first that day,
That left us two spots yet to fill, that would complete our tray,
And the rain had stopped so ‘Rusty’, before finishing our load,
Hung his coat outside the cabin, prior to the unsealed road.
Leaning here and lurching there, 'Rusty', turned ‘round and looked behind,
Letting out a gasp of horror, so I asked, “What’s on your mind?”
“My coat” he said “It’s in a can, pull up the truck, quick stop it!”
Rusty didn’t care about his coat, but his lunch is in the pocket.
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