The Cart Man

 There I was, sitting on the bench, big comforting church behind me,

 chilling, lazing in the sun; when the old-boy cart man nabbed me:

 he has got some extra handles so he can stack the bin bags

 as he empties the park bins filled with cartons, magazines, cans and fags.

He stops and asks curiously, Am I with the Boys Brigade?

 There’s a town show coming soon, they could collect litter, ‘n’ be paid.

 He tells me all the benefits folks don’t realise come his way

 when he picks up the litter Saturday and Sunday night; he says, “Yeah…

Refrain: “The money falls out their pockets, they don’t know it falls to the ground”.

It goes in his holiday fund:                     he saves it by the pound.

 His wife, she calls him sponger, he carries on as before.

 Saw rubble swept in a pile, noticed coins, and looked – found some more:

 nine pounds fifty-four pence in coins, and there something else was hid:

 a plastered, half gold sovereign for which a jeweller paid forty-five quid!

Refrain

He tidies and collects the bins in  the car park round nearby;

 that’s where he had his best luck, he says, with a glint in his eye:

 someone dropped a bundle of notes they blew to 4 corners ‘round,

 he c’lected them here and there: got him hundred and fifty four pound!

 Refrain

[add]  Well, it’s been nice to meet you, and it’s great to hear your story

Refrain

 There I was, sitting on the bench, big comforting church behind me,

 chilling, lazing in the sun; when the old-boy cart man nabbed me:

Image via Wikipedia

© John Wright July 2004