The Bin Man

Every week, he is at my gate, just staring,

He removes his shirt and then inclines his head.

I really couldn’t care less, what the hell he’s wearing,

I just want him stripped and naked, in my bed

I watch him, set his legs apart and bend his knees

and bare-chested plunge a hand into my bin.

Then his eyes cross and his poor face just seems to freeze

He’s forgotten; it’s recycling week - and found a tin.

He bravely shakes it off; oh-my-God, what a man,

He bares his teeth and does his best to pout,

as he removes his hand, I see, it’s not a can

but an old broken spice jar, I’d thrown out.

He looks just like John Wayne, as he stands there, ‘hip-shot’

and swallowing his finger, starts to suck.

I try to shout, ‘don’t do it, that stuff’s bloody hot…’

But it’s too late, and I hear him scream, ‘OH FUCK!’

If I had used it all, he might have had some chance

but Tabasco sauce is only used in drops.

A neighbour’s seen him licking my old pair of pants

and so naturally, she went to call the cops.

I miss him now, but luckily I have his shirt;

It’s underneath my pillow every night.

It's stained with his blood, from that day when he got hurt

I won’t wash it, even though it smells like shite.