Before the rosy morning sun I go,

to gather up the refuse and the gone,

ridden a carriage of dust to and fro,

clean streets I swear before the coming dawn.

Pride of our time, I wear it on my chest,

the work reserv’d for one of better make,

dubb’d, “He who stands as Waste Management’s Best,

He who collects what others would not take.”

An honest living of it I do claim,

modest support for two beds and a bath,

I have no interest in haughty fame,

but a wage to gouge from this trashy path,

to return at day’s end to one I love,

to be soul-clean, so below as above.