Plastic caps, polystyrene hats, pickle sticks and pellets and plats.
Garbage and rubbish in which I relish: like relish and radish and leftover ravage.
Daydream of dumpsters, doodling and doddling,
waiting for fresh fishtails, for day-old dumplings to drop.
Eating the earring that fell out of the lobe, munching on muck and mire in droves.
To munch or not to munch is never a question; I will never refuse refuse or a leftover luncheon.
I’ve heard god made dirt so dirt don’t hurt; so concern about compost is quite absurd.
Germs sherms. Hygiene schymiene.
Just gimme the junk, the trash, the scrap, the waste, the litter, the debris.
It’s right up my alley if there’s garbage in it. I don’t discriminate; it’s rude to do.
Bay and Bloor bins are very bountiful. Right outside BMO I uncover the best butterfingers.
I won’t go on and give you my goods, I gotta get my goodies before you goons do.