The Garbage Man

Baghead Glenrowan

Collector of plastic collector of cans
who might it be but the old garbage man.
At sunrise he toiled and worked hard for his quid
he drove the truck and behind tagged the kid.

The kid was a star down the old footy club
the old man his trainer, mentor and bud.
Together they worked and together they earned
though not related it was together they learned.

There ages were different and so were their fates
it made not a difference cause they were best mates.
But one day through the valley in rode the court jester,
a boil in the district full of puss, yet to fester.

He spoke the vernacular of silver forked tongue,
he stood on his soap box each day in the sun.
Where was he from……well it wasn’t from here,
but he had a vision, although it wasn’t quite clear.

“Revitalized, modernized, everything new,
strategically, developed – for just me and you.
Sustainable living amongst urban sprawl,
economic growth well it benefits you all”
The people they listened and bugger me dead,
the people were mesmerised with each word that he said.
But I thought to myself, this is garbage, Man!,
I heard all the words but I didn’t understand.

Well one day in the yard the boys they were told
that their services weren’t needed, that their methods were old.
A contract was written, without their consent,
drafted by lawyers and set in cement.

Everyone was sad – to see the boys leave the show,
fellas could you clean out your lockers fore you go.

The new bloke’s alright – he does the work of two,
with shiny hydraulics in his truck spankin’new.
His shirt is fluorescent and he’s usually not late,
don’t know his name yet he’s from interstate.

Sometimes at Christmas when I’d put out a beer,
I think of those garbo’s who were mates yesteryear.
The young kid he shot through, looking for work,
forgot about footy and now he’s a clerk.

As for the old boy from what I understand,
he travels the roadways looking for cans.
As time it rolls on its abundantly clear,
we all have a due date and yours… it near?


The Look

The Look

With insincere sincerity
The best that could be mustered
I heard the words and caught the look
that caused me to be flustered

“would you like a canapé Sir?

Well upon a time I could see
that she was once a flower
head held high in dignity
for a mere ten bucks an hour.

but caste my way and said that day
A servant to their master
Know not they to whom they serve
In this class system disaster

For who be I that lives this lie
and garners such respect
A fraud I’m sure, unpleasantly
reminded to reflect

Baghead’s Poetry Manifesto



I’m not really a poet but on occasions I have dabbled with the art form. Furthermore I was recently surprised to find that my father also has toyed with the concept and although I haven’t laid eyes on any of his poetry, I eventually will. With this sketchy background I henceforth lay before you what meagre attempts I have with the promise of more material to come.