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I write a lot of rubbish and I think that you'll agree,
The garbage spilling from my pen epitomises me.
My muse thinks I'm a refuge truck and fills me with it's waste,
I often have to spew it out to take away the taste.

But one man's cast out garbage, is another's food for thought,
For even things we throw away were once the things we bought.
And somehow, though forgotten, there was once a reason why,
We collected it along the way and paid the price to buy.

If you see me collecting rubbish, then there's something I forgot,
For oft' I need the very things I threw away to rot.
Discarded thoughts along the way, rejected from my mind,
Are now the jewels I wished I had, and find it hard to find.

But if I'd kept my rubbish, and saved it for myself,
I'd never see it sitting on some others highest shelf.
I'd never realise again, how useful it had been,
In helping me to understand the things that I had seen.

When putting out the rubbish, it helps to clear the mind,
And makes more space for other things to enter from behind.
But don't think that it's wasted, if someone picks it up,
It's amazing all the useful things, found in a garbage truck!

Ivor G Davies

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