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
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