A Postman’s Lot
I'm waiting for the postman and again, I'm getting bored,
I’ve had no deliveries lately and I feel I'm being ignored.
Nothing plops upon my mat; I make a worried call,
A snooty voice replies "We don't deliver there at all,
Your roads are inconvenient; they're cobbled, steep and lumpy,
Our postman soon runs out of puff; gets tired and very grumpy.
Your house is quite remote; we often lose it in the fog,
Your guinea pig is violent and we don't much like your dog,
Your letter box is troublesome; it’s really far too low,
We can't expect our chap to put his head down by his toe,
The last one too, was awkward it was sited far too high
Our postman stood on tiptoe; pulled a muscle in his thigh,
And your fuschia is too vigorous, it's overgrown and bushy.
You mustn't think, from all of this, the life we want is cushy...but
We can't deliver mail to you; the risk is far too great,
Please collect your letters straight away -they're three months out of date…”
©Jan Jack’s Perfect Verse 2009/10
