Old Wheelie

I’m sick of all this rubbish,
And you might think it’s ok,
But you don’t stand here in the cold,
Every single day.

You treat me worse than death,
And feed me heaps of rot,
Yet rely on me every week,
Even when it’s hot.

You never bath me regular,
My smell is quite a reek,
And when the garbage has to go,
It’s poor old me you seek.

You really are disgusting,
The way you treat me is a sin,
When I come back in my next life,
I’ll never be a bin.