LITTERING WITH INTENT
Baked-bean tins and browning banana skins,
Dumped in the High Street, right next to the bins.
A wet mattress makes midnight migration
Past the tip, to the old railway station.
The skips are all starving. Black bags rot away,
While rats clip their claws where children play.
When will we learn to ignore this strange whim
To teach our shopping trolleys how to swim?
Our future’s green. That certain enough
But things always go green when they go off.
Poor old planet; you’re a bloody disgrace.
Martians won’t come here. They smell us from space.
© Copyright. Arthur Chappell
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