Now weary Postman just Pass on by,
With your leaflets of Junk that the Soul decries.
What Care do I of your Canine tales,
The continuing trials so to bring me the Mail.
No interest I have for all those tiresome Bills,
And the nights of drink they do instil.
And keep all messages from far-off hands,
Those distant old friends, and there friendship demands.
All Birthday Cards leave in the bag,
The greying Hair speak of the years I’ve had.
No; weary Postman just pass on by,
If there are no letters from HER;
Just pass on by.