The Postman Poem by Billy Bennett

Three cheers for the postman, the jolly old postman,
With letters for Smith, Brown and Kelly,
A load in his sack, a hump on his back,
And a pain in his Marie Corelli

The soldier sees sights in the battle,
The sailor sees sights in the depths;
But a postman sees sights in the morning
When a fat woman's scrubbing the steps.

At each door I knock, I prepare for a shock
Some slip on an old dressing-gown,
Some slip on a cloak, some slip on a coat,
And some slip on the stairs and come down.

You'll notice I'm wearing two peaks to my hat
It's a new kind of hat they're inventing.
But when folks look at me they can never agree
If I'm going or coming or wenting.

I've delivered at every house in the town,
Barring one house... I've not been there yet.
Nobody writes there and nobody goes there,
So why should I go?... it's 'To Let'!

These legs that I wear are not my own pair.
Talk of bunions and chilblains, I've got 'em.
Through tramping the street, I've worn out my feet,
These are odd bits turned up at the bottom.

My dad was a postman before me,
My dad was a brave-hearted soul.
My dad was a postman who died at his post-
He was socked by a telegraph pole!

My mother, I'm told, was a telephone girl.
They were married one day in Septumber.
Of children, it's true, they arranged to have two
But mother gave dad the wrong number.

They started with three, and our Family Tree
Began to stretch out like an Isthmus.
They had half-a-score, and they might have had more,
But they stopped posting early for Christmas..

All our family were born with long noses,
And poor mother got in a funk.
In her time she had so many trunk calls
The last baby was born with a trunk...

As it grew up the trunk got much longer.
Last Good Friday there was a schlemozzle,
By way of a treat the kids in the street
Were throwing their buns up her schnozzle.

Some postmen would read all the postcards,
But I'm not that kind, no, I'm not.
I don't think it's right to read what people write
Do you? O.K. I'll read you the lot!

Dear Brother Jock, if you wear a Scotch frock,
Mind the cold doesn't give you paralysis.
We've been searching for weeks, but can't find your breeks,
So we're sending a wee pair of Alice's.

Dear Ma, when you open this postcard
You will see all the news I've not got.
I'm not living here, I removed there last year,
So come round and see where I'm not.

Dear Liz, if you don't get this message,
Please answer at once and I'll know.
My sister's got wed, our little dog's dead,
And I hope you're the same, Darling Joe.

So hats off to the jolly old postman
Who always tries to do what's fair and right.
He hasn't any playtime, he sorts mails in the day-time,
And he's busy sorting females out at night.