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.