Wednesday, April 11, 2007
When the postman ventures out
On his early morning route,
With mailbag filled with all the latest mail;
In the winter's snow or sleet,
Or mid summer's scorching heat,
Every packet he'll deliver without fail.
He carries papers, magazines,
Catalogues and various things,
And letters stacked so neatly by the score;
He's as punctual as a clock,
And there is no need to knock
As he quickly slips a letter through the door.
Many blocks he has to walk,
And he hasn't time to talk,
As he mounts the many steps along the street;
Every letter must go through
Be they many or just few,
When the bag is empty, then his job's complete.
What at last he homeward trot
With the last letter through the slot,
He has a cheerio for every one,
And at home when off his beat
As he rests his tired feet,
He's content to know his days work was well done.