Mr. Composted-Diligently — Brown Bin Sorted Right

Lyrics

[Intro]
The house is dark. 5:48 AM.
The coffee is made. The grounds are still warm.
Another small offering for the pail on the counter.

[Verse 1]
It's a quiet collection, a week-long account.
The papery skin of a yellow onion.
The shell of Tuesday's egg, crushed between thumb and finger.
The wilted end of a carrot.
All of it destined for the same dark place.
A slow conversation with decay.
He doesn't think of it as virtue.
He thinks of it as sorting.

[Chorus]
And every Thursday morning, before the sky is fully committed,
He carries the brown bin to the curb.
A small pilgrimage in slippers.
This is the ritual. This is the whole of the law.
The coffee grounds in the right place.
The small ecology, held in a plastic box.

[Verse 2]
There's no monument for this.
No certificate of achievement.
His name is not recorded in any book for this act.
It is simply a debt, paid forward in peelings and rinds.
A quiet contract with the soil he'll never own.
A trust that the cycle knows what to do with a gift, however small.

[Bridge]
The neighbors see a man taking out the trash.
They don't see the unseen work, the small, deliberate choice repeated.
No parade for the properly sorted peel.
Just the faint, earthy scent of things returning to what they were.
A sermon preached in silence to the worms.

[Outro]
The bin is lifted. Tipped. Emptied.
Set down with a hollow plastic clap on the pavement.
He turns and walks back inside.
The truck moves on.
Another Thursday.