The cat had some crap to get rid of and off the balcony he gave it a shove. He heard a yell and looked down below, finding those idiots, Gung and Ho. They were digging through the trash and it seems they were having a bash.
"Gung, did I just get hit with dung?"
"Yes. Ho. It sure wasn't from a crow."
"At least it matches in with all this other stuff. Do you think we have enough?"
The two mooks looked over their stash. Yep, they had filled their grocery cart with trash. Clearly not in need. But brain cells in those two never fire off at high speed. They had cans and other odds and ends. I guess collecting trash was one of their latest trends.
"We are rhyming again, Ho. That cat is around so we must go."
"We would not want him to steal our treasure. This stuff you really can't measure."
"Yeah we are going to be rich. Ho, I think I'm getting a stitch."
The two tried to yank their cart up a hill. They both turned red looking rather ill. Then they had the bright idea of using a rope. They attached it to the front and began dragging it up the slope. And of course their rope was from the trash, so seconds later there was a loud crash.
"That stung, Gung!"
"Now we can't make a phone,
With each can and get a ring tone.
We can't build a heater,
Out of sparklers for an old beater."
"We can't build a kite,
Out of tarp and watch it take flight.
We can't make a cup,
Out of stryofoam for a pup."
"Our treasure is gone.
Sprawled across that guys lawn.
At least it looks great.
Maybe he'll pay us a rate?"
"What really is trash anyway, Ho?"
"Gung, I don't think such a thing will show."
"Trash is really treasure. It can always bring pleasure."
Then out came an old coot. He looked over his lawn and began to hoot. He stomped back inside and pulled out a shotgun and away the two of them did run.
"Do you think that was his trash, Gung?"
"I think he got mad that we tried to steal it and it got flung."
The two were finally out of sight. I don't think they will ever see the light. now they are trash pickers as well. Every time they are around things go to hell. But at least the old coot won't have to mow his grass. Still that much trash would annoy even my little rhyming ass.
Fill your rummer, get drunk all summer.