When asked what they would like to be When they grow up, some show uncertainty But never me. I know as surely as I can I want to be a garbageman.
I watch him twice a week go by I watch him with a teary eye And sigh a sigh And hope one day I’ll have the luck To ride the rear of a garbage truck.
His arms are thick as little trees He swings the heavy bags with ease In ones and twos and threes He rides around the streets all day And gets to play with junk this way.
For garbagemen it’s not a sin When emptying the garbage in To make a din. While I must face a steady diet Of being told to keep it quiet.
And I have got a certain hunch That garbagemen must like a bunch To make things crunch. I think it would be really keen To run the crunching-up machine.
And plus the fun of making noise You’ve got your pick of all the toys That girls and boys For some odd reason threw away That still in them have lots of play.
I think when I become a garbageman I’ll change y name to Bill or Stan And buy a van To carry all the good stuff in That people pitched in the garbage bin
I don’t know if you make much cash From going round collecting trash. It might be rash To think you could become enriched From stuff that other folks have ditched.
But I’m not sure whether this is so ’Cause our garbageman, whose name is Joe, Told Mr. Snow, Our neighbour, walking with his pup, That business was really picking up