It’s said one man’s trash is other man’s treasure;
I say it’s all good when the source is pleasure.
Getting me cleaned out is an archeological dig,
with a lot to be learned about the life of this rig:
Beach sand, fine grit, and spilled Hibachi ash,
charcoal remnants from many a barbecue bash;
days spent at beaches, nights beneath the stars,
measured in food wrappers to-go cups from bars;
Coral pieces, sea shells, tied together with twine,
from making jewelry in some free love design;
Pinot Grigio, Merlot, crushed Cardbordeaux box,
aluminum can flip tops from beer drinking jocks;
Magic Hat bottle caps sporting insightful words:
philosophical, comical, wisdom for the birds;
wax drippings abound from candles of all kinds,
wood soaked with oil from young, naked behinds;
Coppertone, Banana Boat, some Bain de Soleil,
herbal potions designed to enhance love play;
rogue condom wrappers, ripped open and tossed;
ampoules of flavored lube that so easily get lost.
It’s a bittersweet moment when I get cleaned out,
voided of all souvenirs, but necessary, no doubt.
Time to get trashed again and paint the Keys red.
To hell with clean. Give me fun 'n dirty instead!