A Rubbish Poem

Hauling out the tubs of grime
Rancid contents oozing slime
Gulping down the bursting bags,
A metal mouth that never gags

This shadow caste that never moan
They know it falls to them alone
To deal with what we all ignore
Lest we feel our conscience sore

Rotting food and wood stove ash
Spilling out as bottles crash
Nothing can delay this team
Finely-tuned, their slick routine

From a very early hour
Comes the distant thump of power
Rumbling wheels, hydraulics whirring
As the nine-to-fives are stirring

Rarely troubling their thoughts,
The afterlives of yogurt pots
Recycling or landfill tip
To a netherworld they flip

No resentment from these lads
Collecting from exclusive pads
Bonhomie and humour still
Soft toys on the wagon grille

When they get back home again
They’ll know at least they have bin men
With a shallow sense of pride
Grafting daily to provide

Their forefathers, forebrothers too
Society asked them to do
The roughest and most risky chores
Digging coal or fighting wars

Iron men of lowly caste
Who stepped up to the plate when asked
They put their bodies on the line
And hit the ground before their time

Now we say that ‘all can rise’
A graduation is the prize
But if we educate these guys
Who will brave the stench and flies?

Who will join the soiled ranks
At abbatoirs and septic tanks
Clearing fatbergs down the drains
Spreading tarmac in the rain

For this way it has always been
Some get to stay warm and clean
Nourish and expand their minds
And reap rewards of many kinds

While others take a tougher course
Men and women with no choice
Labouring behind the scenes
Of a world that looks pristine

Picking crops and mopping floors
Caring for the old and poor
Takers for this type of toil
Are running low on native soil

So bring them in from far away
Easier to treat like slaves
Insecure and zero hours
Far from regulators’ powers

This cast of skivvies hardly tracked
Remind us of an ugly fact
Bodies are always required
To become dirty and tired

Do we show our gratitude
To the menial multitude
That service and support our lives?
We’d sooner just avert our eyes

Tom George 2025

Here in the UK, the city of Birmingham is in the news as the people who empty household rubbish bins (you may call them garbage cans), have been on strike for a month over pay cuts.

I wrote this poem during another bin strike last year, but now seemed a good time to air it. The air in Birmingham, I hear, is currently fetid.