Garbage

 

GARBAGE

Mr. Thompson calls the waiter

Orders steak and baked potater

Then he leaves the bone and gristle

And he never eats the skin

The busboy comes and takes it

With a cough contaminates it

Then he throws it in a can

With coffee grinds and sardine tins

A truck comes by on Friday

And carts it all away

And a thousand trucks just like it

Are converging on the bay

 

Cho: Garbage, (GARBAGE!) Garbage, (GARBAGE!)

We’re filling up the sea with garbage, (GARBAGE!)

Garbage, (GARBAGE!), Garbage, (GARBAGE!)

What will we do when there’s

No place left to put all of the garbage? (GARBAGE!)

 

Mr. Johnson starts his Cadillac

Winds it up the freeway track

Leaving friends and neighbors

In a hydro-carbon haze

He’s joined by lots of smaller cars

All sending gases to the stars

There to form a seething cloud

That hangs for thirty days

While the sun licks down upon it

With its ultra-violet tongues

It turns to smog and settles down

Right inside your lungs

 

Cho: Garbage, (GARBAGE!) Garbage, (GARBAGE!)

We’re filling up our lungs with garbage, (GARBAGE!)

Garbage, (GARBAGE!), Garbage, (GARBAGE!)

What will we do when there’s

Nothing left to breathe but garbage? (GARBAGE!)

 

Getting home and taking off his shoes

He settles down with the evening news

While the kids do homework

With the T.V. in one ear

While Superman for the thousandth time

Sells talking dolls and conquers crime

They dutifully learn the date of birth

Of Paul Revere

In the paper there’s a piece

About the mayor’s middle name

And he gets it done in time

To watch the all-star Bingo Game!

 

Cho: Garbage, (GARBAGE!) Garbage, (GARBAGE!)

We’re filling up our minds with garbage, (GARBAGE!)

Garbage, (GARBAGE!), Garbage, (GARBAGE!)

What will we do when there’s

Nothing left to sing about, nothing left to talk about

Nothing left to look like

And nothing left to smell like,

Nothing left to be, but garbage? (GARBAGE!)

 

Written by Bill Steele, © 1973, Chinga Music Ltd

On Peter Alsop – www.peteralsop.com