On Morecambe’s front they stand in a row,
Four bin-friends with faces aglow.
Bottle-bin boasts with a circular grin,
“I’m packed to the brim, I’m winning again!”

“Ha!” cries the waste-bin, “look at me,
I’ve swallowed chip wrappers by the sea!
I’m the true champion, don’t you agree?
Grease-stained trophies are all that I see.”

Tin-can pipes up with a metallic tone,
“My belly is clattering, leave me alone!
I’m fuller than both of you, can’t you hear?
I’m jingling proudly, the victor is clear!”

Then glass-bin huffs, with a clunky chime,
“Stop all your bragging, it happens each time.
Who’s best doesn’t matter, you’re missing the fun—
Together we’re tidying under the sun!”

So still they squabble, but folks passing by
Smile at the bins with their wide, googly eyes.
For in Morecambe’s breeze, silly or grand,
Even the ******* has quarrels on hand.