The Old Bog Road

I’m standing by the roadside, this misty Autumn morn,
I’m staring at a beauty that’s been well and truly torn.
Two dead calves, a rotting couch, a matress and a fridge,
A cooker, and a go-car, beyond the old stone bridge.
The ideal place, to dump your waste, a long and lonesome road,
Late at night, when all isd quiet, pull in and dump your load,
Miles from any dwelling house, especially from yours,
The weeds will soon conceal it, in these handy country sewers,
In the late night land of saint and scribe;
“A LITTER BILL NOW OWED”,
It won’t go away; we’ll have to pay, for the old bog road.

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