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;
For the nights of drink they do instil.
And keep all messages from far-off hands;
Those distant old friends with their friendship demands.
All Birthday Cards leave in the bag;
The greying hair speak the years I've had.
No; weary Postman Pass-on by,
If there are no Letters from HER, just Pass-on by.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem