My dustbin

Every morning when I rise,

I find my dustbin hungry.

The waste collector had compelled

to puke and made its belly empty.

The dustbin is so nice, whatever I give;
eats happily rubbish and roughage.

That all, is its fodder,

the things what I say is garbage.

Begun with my breakfast ,

I feed it throughout the day.

It gulps in, everything offered

and cheerful, always stays.

I don’t really bother,
whether things provided are, of its taste.

Nonetheless, I offer to feed

whatever, I find surplus and waste.

  

I don’t hesitate to share with it,

my mistakes and the secrets.

Putting in, even the confidential scraps,

I have not yet felt any regret.

Though it gets full chance,
many dark sides of things, to read.

But very faithfully it hides,

all of my disgraceful deeds.

I have seen my dustbin,

most happy on Halloweens.

Because it gets it’s tummy filled

with fresh skin of pumpkins.

Once, I returned from excursion,

saw tears, and thought it did weep.

In fact, the bin was left out

and a stray dog had peed.

Sometimes, with dirty things

I make its life, like hell.

It turns into greatly annoyance

and reacts by foul smell.

If compare to Sir Mikebike’s

I find my dustbin better.

Because I have not got yet,

any Municipality’s letter