Garbage!

(The ! is part of the title!)



Copyright (c) 1969

Whitfeld Music (BMI)

All rights reserved



Bill Steele

ws21@cornell.edu



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Mister Thompson calls the waiter, orders steak and baked potato

Then he leaves the bone and gristle and he never eats the skin

The busboy comes and takes it, with a cough contaminates it

As he puts it in a can with coffee grounds and sardine tins

Till the truck comes by on Friday and carts it all away

And a thousand trucks just like it are converging on the Bay



Garbage, garbage, garbage, garbage

What will we do when there's no place left

To put all the garbage



Mr Thompson starts his caddilac and winds it up the freeway track

Leaving friends and neighbors in a hydrocarbon 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 ultraviolet tongues

Till it turns to smog and settles down and ends up in our lungs

Garbage, garbage

We're filling up the sky with garbage

Garbage, garbage

What will we do

When there's nothing left to breathe but garbage



Getting home and taking off his shoes he settles down with

evening news

While the kids do homework with the TV in one ear

While Superman for thousandth time

sell 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



Garbage, garbage

We're filling up our minds with garbage

Garbage, garbage



What will we do when there's nothing left to read

And there's nothing left to hear

And there's nothing left to need

And there's nothing left to wear



(that way it sort of rhymes....)







And there's nothing left to talk about

And there's nothing to walk upon

And there's nothing left to care about

-> And nothing left to ponder on

And