In the back of the beatup duster is where he used to thrust her,

she can't find the strength to muster and he whishes that he never thouched her,

There's a black and white that's a comin' in sight,

And they're lookin' for a little boy,

And there's a little girl with a hair of curls,

And she's treadin' leers of coy,

In a chimney stack on a factory's back,

Is the smoke that no one sees,

There's a little flower that tastes so sour, hidden beneath the trees,

Buster's in the dumpster,

He's lost his luster in the dumpster,

After nine months he thought he could trust her,

But she thought he rushed her,

A harmonica screams that's so obscene,

There's a bluish neon light,

There's a murky stare above the glare,

But beware of the false contrite,

A cement block shoe in a river blue,

Peek a boo can you guess who,

A scattered few did catch the cue, or did you wind up with the flue,

Buster's in the dumpster,

He's lost his luster in the dumpster,

After nine months he thought he could trust her,

But that's all she could muster,

There's an innocent soul on a midnight stroll,

Not ready for what he'll find,

Under a telephone poll on a grassy knoll didn't pay it any mind,

The days went past but the memory lasts of the pain that she knew,

Somethin' old somethin' new somethin' borrowed somethin' blue,

Can you tell me that its not true,

Buster's in the dumpster,

He's lost his luster in the dumpster,

After nine months he thought he could trust her,

But she thought he rushed her,

Buster's at the bottom of the bottom of the dumpster,

Buster's at the bottom of the bottom of the dumpster,

Buster's at the bottom of the bottom of the dumpster,

Buster's at the bottom of the bottom of the dumpster.

By

Steve Pollack, Mike Lucsky