Posties

Posties 1993
(In the 1990's I worked for a while as a postman and amused my colleagues with an annual poetic chronicle.
The events described in some verses are exaggerated for comic effect. No animals or old men were seriously harmed in events inspiring these poems.)

There is a jolly postie,
Who always says good day,
But he expects a Christmas tip
To supplement his pay.

There is a great big postie,
A hero it is said.
He calmed a barking doggie
By kicking in its head.

There is a postal woman,
As sexy as can be,
But she has a boyfriend
Who's over six foot three.

There is a comic postie,
Who is the office clown.
Colleagues make a fool of him
And pull his trousers down.

There is another postie
With very little class.
When he's drunk he dances
And shows us all his ass.

So free beers for the postie,
The hero of the mail,
Who laughs at barking, angry dogs,
And rain and wind and hail.

****

Posties 1994

We had a laugh a year ago
With rhymes about postmen
And women too, so here we go,
Lets do it all again.

There is a well hard postie
With football card and pen.
He's always ready for your cash
And likes to thump old men.

There is a female postie
Who makes me feel alive,
But she is in her twenties,
And I am ninety-five.

"Ninety-five", you might well say,
"These words cannot be real."
But sometimes, when I'm feeling old,
That's how old I feel.

There is a lawless postie,
Who cycles through red lights.
He's cheeky to policemen,
So they read him his rights.

He won't use lamps in darkness
To brighten up his bike,
So he's been fined just twenty pounds,
That's British justice, like.

There is a speedy postman,
A man propelled by rockets.
He opened up his car door:
Splat! Right off its sockets.

There is a crazy postman,
Whose real first name is Horace.
Because he should be in a zoo,
They call him Johnny Morris.

When I say he's called "Horace",
I don't mean that he's twitty.
His actual name is Richard,
Bus "Horace" sounds more witty.

There is an arty postman,
God's gift to poetry,
A credit to the human race,
That sure as hell ain't me.

****

Posties 1995

Celebrate!
Don't moan of blub,
Our young Jane
Is in the club.

There was a teen girl postie
Who caused our hearts to throb,
But now those hearts are empty.
She's found another job.

No Michelle, no Jane for now;
We don't know what to do,
Unless we're feeling brave enough
To harass Sal or Sue.

There is a sneaky postie,
Who annoys his betters.
When helping out his colleagues,
He likes to hide the letters.

That Italian postie
Worked, but was still broke.
He took a lot of time off,
So they sacked the bloke.

There is a crazy postman,
Who's heading for a fall.
His dear old mother threw him out,
So now he lives with Tall.

Some people like young Johnny,
Some say he's wise and slick,
But I don't really know him well;
He's always on the sick.

Riding his bike
Without his shirt on,
Squealer looked
Like Richard Burton.
(Who has been dead for several years.)

There are some mouthy posties,
Who shout when sorting mail,
But shouting racist slogans
Is quite beyond the pale.

There are some real mug posties,
Pitiful to see.
They come in very early,
And work and toil for free.

There are some reckless posties.
I think they come from Mars.
To get their rounds done quicker
They do it in their cars.

They think they're being clever,
They think they're doing well;
They're cutting their own bloody throats,
And cutting mine as well.

There is a charming postie,
He's handsome, bright and slim.
He knocked a driver's mirror off
And handed it to him.

****

Posties 1996.

Until very recently,
You seemed like girls and laddies.
How things change,
It's very strange,
You're mostly mums and daddies.

We've learned about each other;
Not everything is fine.
Some of us are heroes,
And some of us are swine.

There is a leaping postman,
Who showed a lack of sense.
He couldn't face the pickets,
So leapt in o'er the fence.

In past years I'd witter on
And on and on and on.
This poem is much shorter,
With Johnny Morris gone.

There is a postman known as "Tall".
We'll take that nickname back.
The artist formerly known as "Tall":
"The Man They Could Not Sack".

The smokers gripe and moan and groan
And cough and choke and smell,
Now that they've been banished to
Their private smokers' hell.

A few come out with fag in hand
And smoke where not allowed.
For doing that they should be made
To join the giro crowd.

A charitable postman
Went to help Romania's poor.
The only error that he made
Was coming back once more.

****

Posties 1997.

Please listen now to what I say.
Please listen to my rhyme.
I will share this doggerel,
If you can spare the time.

This year some look sad and blue
And tired and sad and harried.
The reason for the state they're in:
Most of them got married.

I am sad and blue as well
And my heart's in pain.
The reason for this misery?
One of them was Jane.

Some things simply disappear
Like flares and Beatle suits.
Does anyone remember
The postman known as Boots?

Then there's postman Leo.
Do you remember when
He buggered off to Preston
Then buggered back again?

There was a supervisor,
The cream of all the crop.
He was so very skilful,
That now he runs a shop.

Diana died and everything
Seemed dark and grey and murky.
Only one thing cheered us up:
We got a day off worky.

There is a gambling postie,
A little wheeler-dealer.
Call him anything you like,
Just don't call him "Squealer".

There is a silly postman,
Who really looks a prat,
When he wears his pony tail
And little schoolgirl hat.

There is a somewhat skinny wretch.
He's narrow, slight and slim.
When he wears a white shirt,
His friend won't talk to him.

I have a lively social life
Which has you all in fits.
In this last year drunk women
Groped various of my bits.

This poem would be longer,
But poets are so frail.
The only way to build my strength
Is supping lots of ale.