Songtekst:
Garbage!
(The ! is part of the title!)
Copyright (c) 1969
Whitfeld Music (BMI)
All rights reserved
Bill Steele
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mister Thompson calls the waiter, orders steak and baked potato
Then he leaves the bone and gristle and he never eats the skin
The busboy comes and takes it, with a cough contaminates it
As he puts it in a can with coffee grounds and sardine tins
Till the truck comes by on Friday and carts it all away
And a thousand trucks just like it are converging on the Bay
Garbage, garbage, garbage, garbage
What will we do when there's no place left
To put all the garbage
Mr Thompson starts his caddilac and winds it up the freeway track
Leaving friends and neighbors in a hydrocarbon haze
He's joined by lots of smaller cars all sending gases to the stars
There to form a seething cloud that hangs for thirty days
While the sun licks <looks> down upon it with its ultraviolet tongues
Till it turns to smog and settles down and ends up in our lungs
Garbage, garbage
We're filling up the sky <air> with garbage
Garbage, garbage
What will we do
When there's nothing left to breathe but garbage
Getting home and taking off his shoes he settles down with
evening news
While the kids do homework with the TV in one ear
While Superman for thousandth<s> time
sell talking <sexy> dolls and conquers crime
They dutifully learn the date of birth of Paul Revere
In the paper there's a piece about the mayor's middle name
And he gets it done in time to watch the all-star bingo game
Garbage, garbage
We're filling up our minds with garbage
Garbage, garbage
What will we do when there's nothing left to read
And there's nothing left to hear
And there's nothing left to need
And there's nothing left to wear
(that way it sort of rhymes)
<What will we do when there's nothing left to hear
And there's nothing left to read
And there's nothing left to wear
And there's nothing left to need>
And there's nothing left to talk about
And there's nothing to walk upon
And there's nothing left to care about
-> And nothing left to ponder on
And <there's> nothing left to see
(reverse order here:)
And there's nothing left to do
And there's nothing left to be but garbage
(The ! is part of the title!)
Copyright (c) 1969
Whitfeld Music (BMI)
All rights reserved
Bill Steele
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mister Thompson calls the waiter, orders steak and baked potato
Then he leaves the bone and gristle and he never eats the skin
The busboy comes and takes it, with a cough contaminates it
As
Till the truck comes by on Friday and carts it all away
And a thousand trucks just like it are converging on the Bay
Garbage, garbage, garbage, garbage
What will we do when there's no place left
To put all the garbage
Mr Thompson starts his caddilac and winds it up the freeway track
Leaving friends and neighbors in a hydrocarbon haze
He's joined by lots of smaller cars all sending gases to the stars
There to form a seething cloud that hangs for thirty days
While the sun licks <looks> down upon it with its ultraviolet tongues
Till it turns to smog and settles down and ends up in our lungs
Garbage, garbage
We're filling up the sky <air> with garbage
Garbage, garbage
What will we do
When there's nothing left to breathe but garbage
Getting home and taking off his shoes he settles down with
evening news
While the kids do homework with the TV in one ear
While Superman for thousandth<s> time
sell talking <sexy> dolls and conquers crime
They dutifully learn the date of birth of Paul Revere
In the paper there's a piece about the mayor's middle name
And he gets it done in time to watch the all-star bingo game
Garbage, garbage
We're filling up our minds with garbage
Garbage, garbage
What will we do when there's nothing left to read
And there's nothing left to hear
And there's nothing left to need
And there's nothing left to wear
(that way it sort of rhymes)
<What will we do when there's nothing left to hear
And there's nothing left to read
And there's nothing left to wear
And there's nothing left to need>
And there's nothing left to talk about
And there's nothing to walk upon
And there's nothing left to care about
-> And nothing left to ponder on
And <there's> nothing left to see
(reverse order here:)
And there's nothing left to do
And there's nothing left to be but garbage
