When asked what they would like to be
When they grow up, some show uncertainty
But never me.
I know as surely as I can
I want to be a garbageman.
I watch him twice a week go by
I watch him with a teary eye
And sigh a sigh
And hope one day I’ll have the luck
To ride the rear of a garbage truck.
His arms are thick as little trees
He swings the heavy bags with ease
In ones and twos and threes
He rides around the streets all day
And gets to play with junk this way.
For garbagemen it’s not a sin
When emptying the garbage in
To make a din.
While I must face a steady diet
Of being told to keep it quiet.
And I have got a certain hunch
That garbagemen must like a bunch
To make things crunch.
I think it would be really keen
To run the crunching-up machine.
And plus the fun of making noise
You’ve got your pick of all the toys
That girls and boys
For some odd reason threw away
That still in them have lots of play.
I think when I become a garbageman
I’ll change y name to Bill or Stan
And buy a van
To carry all the good stuff in
That people pitched in the garbage bin
I don’t know if you make much cash
From going round collecting trash.
It might be rash
To think you could become enriched
From stuff that other folks have ditched.
But I’m not sure whether this is so
’Cause our garbageman, whose name is Joe,
Told Mr. Snow,
Our neighbour, walking with his pup,
That business was really picking up