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