He strides down my street with his satchel
Of letters tucked under his arm.
And some have just come from the city
While some have been mailed from the farm.
But if none have been posted by Eileen
Then this you should know and right well
That the friendly local mail-man
Is the Letter-Carrier From Hell.
He sometimes brings trade papers
Or coupons for a sale.
Some days political pamphlets
Or pleas to Save A Whale
I don't mind all the junk mail
Or the efforts at soft-sell
But if there's no message from you, dear,
He's the Letter-Carrier From Hell.
In summer-time, when he's roasting
He gets cool-drinks from me,
And when wet wintry winds blow cold
He finds a cup of tea.
I'd feed him lunch and dinner
With ice-creams cones as well
But without your message, he starves, dear,
The Letter-Carrier From Hell.