His Postman Poem by Ian Keenan
His Postman
He liked me, my boss,
As looks counted
In those days,
And I was handsome then.
But I was fairly
Messed up,
Emotionally dead,
My sociable persona
Carrying the day.
So good old Gavin,
Down in Kent,
Smoking like a chimney,
Wanted just the good news,
So I became his postman,
My smile-a-day
Keeping his woes
At bay.
Saturday, January 30, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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5/8/2024 10:01:48 AM # 1.0.0.1119
