womble's lament

Underground, overground, they say we womble free
But there’s more to life than scavenging for litter.
A Wimbledon waste operative is not the life for me
I’d rather be a salesman – or a Kwik-fit fitter.

I’d rather be a teacher answering to “Sir!”
Or a paramedic rushing to a crash,
Instead of which I’m 3 foot 6 and covered all in fur
And wombling on the Common, gathering trash.

I tried to be a pop-star but my nose was much too pointed
(Though Barry Manilow achieved his goals);
I tried to be a gymnast but I’m not too supple-y jointed
Though I’m very good at doing forward rolls.

Any jobs with burrows I would enter into wholly
(A tube-train driver – someone catching moles)
But Orinoco says that I am much too roly-poly
And my girth would block the entry to those holes.

I’m sure there must be some career for which I’m truly suited
(I’d love to plough an independent furrow)
But when I told Bulgaria, my Uncle merely hooted
And scurried back inside the family burrow.

Miss Adelaide said I could be whatever I aspired
But now my aspirations all are sunk -
From every job I’ve ever had I just kept getting fired
Which is why I’m on the Common – sorting junk!

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