Gawbage Nite.

Gawbage Nite
by
Benny Grunch

South from the mouth of the Orleans Canal
All the way down to Avondale Homes
Brave young males must walk, way after dark
Sent out to become men all alone

Some start young as seven, others late as eleven
Leave their families to trek down the drive
On a job they will keep, two or three nights a week
Probably the rest of their lives

It may require straining, but absolutely no training
It's inherited by some divine rite
"You're not a boy anymore, you're out the back door
On accounta it's Gawbage Nite!"

***

But let's really get retro, before Geo Metro
When trash cans had rust and had dents
When garbage had class, soft drink bottles were glass
And their deposit worth all of two cents

Lime Lick'em Aid, Gillette Cavalcade
Schaeffer's peacock-blue ink
"And don't cook tonight, call Chicken Delight
The menu's right there by the zink."

When life was real easy, and hair stuff real greasy
And sometimes without any warning
The garbage would smell, like oyster shell hell
At West End on Saturday morning

***

The bags could be drastic, not yet made of plastic
Just paper in mostly light brown
And though super-absorbent, might sound real important
But not when you got hot coffee grounds

The ones that were plain, brown with no name
You could see where they'd came from the kitchen
But the ones that said Piggly's, Pap's, Bell's, and Wiggly's
Were from stores that were all air-conditioned

Now the purple ones folded, as if they'd been molded
From the little ones up to the largest
They smelled drug-store clean, but tore at the seam
K&B's bags was no place for garbage

What garbage guys dread, a wet spot that spread
And right through the bag you see Spam
If you panic and run, you know there's no fun
In picking up Spam with your hand

Gotta think fast, set the bag in the grass
But the grass is all wet, now that's worse
So go drag in the can, you're becoming a man
While taking out trash in reverse

***

Air Wicks, fish sticks, melted mushy Gold Bricks
Bottle caps and TV Dinner trays
Silver metal six-pack, RC Cola carry racks
Really, people threw those things away

Wax-paper, freezer paper, loose-leaf paper, tracing paper
Paper with tamale shucks inside
But newspapers and magazines, tied up with brown strings
That's all going for the Paper Drive

Tiny frozen corrugated, Donald Duck concentrated
Orange juice cans thawing out
A busted Nifty folder, a crispied-up pot holder
Your sister burned one day at Brownie Scouts

Peelings from fried potatoes, solid-color-decorator
CDM coffee cans with lids
Just one tiny cracked, Zatarain's extract
Bottle that made root beer with no fizz

***

No Rubbermaid cans, with slots for your hands
No neutral colors, no wheels
Just bad ergonomics, big as the ones at St. Dom'nics
They'd get uglier year after year

These cans they were noisy, probably made up in Boise
Where they galvanize metal all day
Made a horrible sound, when drug on the ground
Between houses up the cement alleyway

Most houses had two, one kind of new
The other should be shot at dawn
And every dog on the block, would bark at the top
Of it's fence like they'd seen Earl K. Long

***

And then you got roaches, big as Holy Cross coaches
The smart ones that run, jump, and fly
Probably out on a mission, inside the kitchen
Now with you in a small box of Tide

You heard they were clever, live almost forever
Get meaner the longer they grow
Like the giant one that while in, a tent on Scout Island
Ate off the Scout Master's toe

"Ok, you roaches, this here's Buenos Noches !"
As you run back now armed with Gulfspray
Then blast'em up plenty, just past an empty
Half gallon of Gallo Tokay

Though it's easy to see, why you'd rescue debris
There's a yell through the back window fan
"That's for the mosqeetas, hell they're all gonna eat us
Don't waste Gulfspray in the damn gawbage can!"

***

Now it's past twenty, past forty was plenty
Now fifty years taking out trash
Down the side, to the front, back wherever you want
I'll step in to give it a mash

They say time goes fast, the longer you last
And only slows down for the mortgage
But time really creeps for junk-yard antiques
And almost stands still for garbage

So you who entrusted those dented and rusted
First cans into my hands
If it's Gawbage Nite? Yeah you right!
Well, I'm still your Gawbage Man.

Copyright 1998 Benny Grunch - All Rights Reserved

Call Benny Grunch & The Bunch at 504.231.8916 for live gigs. Ya' Mama's Gutted Out Lakeview Horn Section is available too, if ya' wanna.