The Old Pickin' Line

For eight hours a day and for minimum pay, I sift through what you throw away,
Constantly working to keep the vomit at bay,
As my senses are attacked by the putrid decay,
It’s like sharing your workplace with old, rotting swine,
Just another day on the old pickin’ line,
The endless conveyor of recyclable waste,
Anything I discard is always replaced,
Wearing a mask to hide my disgrace,
And because my gloves don’t protect me from the smell I can taste,
I wonder should I just quit as I try to define,
Just why I work on this old pickin’ line,
Way too much time to think, like in a prison bed,
With the only real prison within the walls in my head,
Disgusted by the sight of a rat, not quite dead,
And of nappies and needles and my own sense of dread,
And the condensation drips from the roof of the shed,
And the sweat and the stink and the stench of the dead,
I spend all day trying not to look at my phone,
Because the less I do it, it seems, the sooner I go home,
But then I look at my clock and it’s approaching five bells,
Only a half hour to go and I’m away from this hell,
Then I get home for a shower at the end of the day,
And thank the Lord, even though I don’t pray,
That I’m able to scrub it and wash it away,
But I have to admit though, it’s not all that bad,
I enjoy the camaraderie and the craic with the lads,
Because we’re basically the same as we all work in time,
Depending on yet despising that old pickin’ line,
As I listen to myself now though I can’t help but think,
That the line has taken hold of me, like I’m part of the stink,
I won’t let that happen though, I won’t get sucked in,
By the ghosts and the demons of the blue wheelie bin,
And so in the morning I cannot decline,
To get up and go back to the smell and the slime,
But I just hope that soon there will come a time,
When I don’t have to work on the old pickin’ line.