By Louise Egan
Recycling Syndrome it's the new religious guilt.
Got cans up to my elbows and I'm fed up to the hilt.
My garbage haunts my dream space,
It's with me when I sleep.
I'm wandering through a nightmare,
With rubbish ankle deep.
From every scrap of paper to should I rinse or not?
Hell! The people at the factory won't know that I'm the grot,
Who left the milk out for a week
And couldn't give a rot.
Should I give up like the neighbours
And heave-ho the bloody lot?
No! I feel for every pine chip that used to be a tree.
I'm conscious of there shredding every time I take a pee
And every sodding plastic bag that ends up in the sea
And all the fag-end tragedy...
It makes me wish that I was born in 1623.
Or even worse that I lived in
The nearest C.B.D
Where they have bins.