No-one loves a postie;
No-one likes a letter.
In parcel hell, he’ll roast. He
Can’t deserve much better.
He doesn’t ring your bell and say:
And how are you, my friend, today?
A punishment enough:
He should grow old and wizened,
While dogs around him, gruff,
Rip half his trousers into shreds,
Or drag him through the flower-beds.
He gets up very early,
And wears some dodgy shorts:
He leaves his neighbours surly,
And full of evil thoughts:
Let’s offer him the thumbscrew, rack,
And give his kind the other sack.
It is far better, really,
To float the postal service
On markets, most sincerely,
For businessmen, not nervous,
To buy the whole thing for a song,
And right what obviously is wrong.
What better way than Royal Mail shares,
To help us fund (say) Trident,
Creating several millionaires,
While enemies are fried and
Toasted by a nuclear threat?
No postman offers such a bet.
Let Mail be owned by China,
Be outsourced, traded, sold:
Let rich consortia wine and dine a
Stamp rise unforetold.
We’re right behind your loyal intent,
Your strong and supple four per cent.
Click here for a story in the Daily Mirror
Click here to buy Bill’s poetry collection Ringers