(The ! is part of the title!)

Copyright (c) 1969
Whitfeld Music (BMI)
All rights reserved

Bill Steele
ws21@cornell.edu

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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  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  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 time
  sell talking  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....)

  

  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