Nowhere Bin

That’s Oscar up there. Of course. He lives in a bin down on Sesame Street. I’m a bin without an Oscar living in me and I live down another street. He sings sweet songs. I don’t. This is what I sing.

 

‘Oh Lord, I’m so sick of your bags.

No more plastic bags!

I got an old sock, and a busted clock,

a cotton bud in a butter tub.

a dinosaur and a one-eyed seal

a burnt pan, a bent bike wheel….

But what makes me sick is your plastic bags.

I’m chock–full

shock-full

belly-full of bags.

So no more plastic bags!’

 

That’s what I’d sing.

And because in the summer I seriously pong. I’d sing a pong song. A bad, sad, pong song.

And when the lights go down and I’m sitting on the kerb, I’d dream about all those bags slipping down to the sea, where a hundred-year-old sea turtle can’t see because he’s got a black plastic bag stuck on his head and a great white shark is streaming shreds of plastic from between his teeth… He needs a shark dentist.

As for me. I’ve had enough of the stuff you don’t want.

So don’t have stuff that you don’t want. Don’t stuff stuff that you don’t want into me.

Give me a break. Give me a treat. Give me a wheel deal to the Wheel Bin Festival, where we slam our lids and the Bin  Band sings: ‘Where’s your bin?’

I bin nowhere. Where’s you bin?