Wheelie Bin Warfare
Posted: Sat Mar 15, 2014 10:28 am
Wazza has inspired me with his 'Bin Day.' (inspired me to fish out this deep & meaningful piece from when I suffered living in a unit block.)
‘Wheelie Bin Warfare’ © 2007 Glenny Palmer
Some of us had brand new wheelie bins dropped off today,
from Unit 6 to 21 the cry went up, ‘Hooray!’
The Body Corp committee said no more were they to stay
lined up around the car-park in a messy disarray.
Now unit dwelling’s compact, nothing like back on the farm
where rubbish could be burnt or buried causing little harm,
so storing our new wheelie bin created some alarm,
there’s only just enough front yard to house our single palm.
A flight of concrete garden steps exacerbates our woe,
negotiating up the things took quite an hour or so,
then Hubby in a lather couldn’t see where it could go,
so he shoved it in the doorway, but I didn’t bloody know.
Preparing to go shopping in my brand new Sunday best
I opened up the door…a wheelie bin attacked my chest;
I grappled with that monster, quite a terrifying quest,
and the names I called my hubby made the neighbours most impressed.
But this was just the start of things, much worse was in the plan,
when rubbish pick-up day arrived, the dirty tricks began;
see we had things to do ‘cause Hubby’s quite a busy man
and didn’t paint our number on the bin with Taubman’s tan.
But nonetheless he struggled with that overflowing bin
to get it down the concrete steps…it whacked him on the shin,
and opened up its jaws until his head was stuck therein;
so with arms and legs a-flailing he embraced that rubbish tin.
They danced a sort of pas-de-deux, ‘twas something quite akin
to Beauty and the Beast on drugs, and then that flaming bin
redoubled its momentum…turned him a-up on his chin
and bowled off down the driveway like a gelignited tin.
It collected poor old Gladys on her way with number three,
and tossed her up and over her beloved apple tree;
it wrapped her cat around its wheels to echoes of ‘ee-eee!’
producing something quite resembling feline spag-hetti.
It took the corner on two wheels and knocked the postie flat,
then showered him with veggie peels and week old cooking fat;
it took on number two’s old crappy bin but soon found that
the bugger housed a ton of bricks…so there is where it sat.
And here the plot now thickens, when the pick-up truck has been,
for wheelie bins are sometimes black and some of them are green,
and all the crafty blighters make their unit numbers seen
with Taubman’s fine calligraphy in measurements obscene.
So under cover of the night our wheelie bin became
a crappy old un-numbered one, I said ‘Oh what a shame’;
what Hubby said I can’t repeat, but he has world wide fame
for blasphemy and vengeance…it’s his all time favoured game.
He waited, watched and waited ‘til the weary week went by,
then hid behind the letterboxes casting furtive eye
along the newly emptied bins until he said ‘I spy
my lovely new green wheelie bin, for which I’d gladly die’.
With flourish grand his dexter hand splashed Taubman’s, two feet high
upon our new green wheelie bin, the number ten, and by
the time the owner of the crappy substitute was nigh
he’d find this painted on his bin, by Hubby… ‘mate, nice try!’
‘Wheelie Bin Warfare’ © 2007 Glenny Palmer
Some of us had brand new wheelie bins dropped off today,
from Unit 6 to 21 the cry went up, ‘Hooray!’
The Body Corp committee said no more were they to stay
lined up around the car-park in a messy disarray.
Now unit dwelling’s compact, nothing like back on the farm
where rubbish could be burnt or buried causing little harm,
so storing our new wheelie bin created some alarm,
there’s only just enough front yard to house our single palm.
A flight of concrete garden steps exacerbates our woe,
negotiating up the things took quite an hour or so,
then Hubby in a lather couldn’t see where it could go,
so he shoved it in the doorway, but I didn’t bloody know.
Preparing to go shopping in my brand new Sunday best
I opened up the door…a wheelie bin attacked my chest;
I grappled with that monster, quite a terrifying quest,
and the names I called my hubby made the neighbours most impressed.
But this was just the start of things, much worse was in the plan,
when rubbish pick-up day arrived, the dirty tricks began;
see we had things to do ‘cause Hubby’s quite a busy man
and didn’t paint our number on the bin with Taubman’s tan.
But nonetheless he struggled with that overflowing bin
to get it down the concrete steps…it whacked him on the shin,
and opened up its jaws until his head was stuck therein;
so with arms and legs a-flailing he embraced that rubbish tin.
They danced a sort of pas-de-deux, ‘twas something quite akin
to Beauty and the Beast on drugs, and then that flaming bin
redoubled its momentum…turned him a-up on his chin
and bowled off down the driveway like a gelignited tin.
It collected poor old Gladys on her way with number three,
and tossed her up and over her beloved apple tree;
it wrapped her cat around its wheels to echoes of ‘ee-eee!’
producing something quite resembling feline spag-hetti.
It took the corner on two wheels and knocked the postie flat,
then showered him with veggie peels and week old cooking fat;
it took on number two’s old crappy bin but soon found that
the bugger housed a ton of bricks…so there is where it sat.
And here the plot now thickens, when the pick-up truck has been,
for wheelie bins are sometimes black and some of them are green,
and all the crafty blighters make their unit numbers seen
with Taubman’s fine calligraphy in measurements obscene.
So under cover of the night our wheelie bin became
a crappy old un-numbered one, I said ‘Oh what a shame’;
what Hubby said I can’t repeat, but he has world wide fame
for blasphemy and vengeance…it’s his all time favoured game.
He waited, watched and waited ‘til the weary week went by,
then hid behind the letterboxes casting furtive eye
along the newly emptied bins until he said ‘I spy
my lovely new green wheelie bin, for which I’d gladly die’.
With flourish grand his dexter hand splashed Taubman’s, two feet high
upon our new green wheelie bin, the number ten, and by
the time the owner of the crappy substitute was nigh
he’d find this painted on his bin, by Hubby… ‘mate, nice try!’