There’s nothing more generic than a local council wheelie bin,
   But wrap it up in tufted cloth and then it’s a chenille-ie bin.

Employ it playing hide-and-seek to make it a concealie bin,

  Or paint it yellow, blue and red to get a more De Stijl-ie bin.    

 

Add bucketfuls of custard and, hey presto, a congealie bin, 
  Suspend a bell inside it and you’ll have a campanilie bin. 

If ugly, you could wear it as an added sex-appealie bin,

  Or take it down to Billingsgate for usage as an eelie bin. 


Enormous glued-on eyebrows could produce a Dennis Healie bin,

  Stick Batman in (and Robin too), and there’s a Batmobile-ie bin.
A candle on the lid and it’s a place-to-have-a-mealie bin, 
  Or put it in a tiny cage to render it a vealie bin.

 

Hang bees and socks and clocks off it, you’ve fashioned a surrealie bin,  

  Or burn it down in mid-July, et voilà, a Bastille-ie bin.

Attempt to guess the contents, it’s a ‘Dealie or No Dealie’ bin,

  Or slam your scrotum in it for a make-a-high-pitched-squealie bin.

Wheelie Bin Poem I

© 2019 by Rob Stuart