The Postage Stamp Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

A postage stamp, handsome and male
in a drawer, was fast growing stale.
When two fingers reached in
took him out of the tin,
he was shaking and looked rather pale.

Now two lips and a tongue from above
smacked right down on him – was this love? -
and before he stuck
he considered his luck
but was grabbed by a hand, dressed in glove.


Well – the kiss had intoxicated
his being, all flat and serrated.
So he puckered his lip
BUT was sent on a trip.
Thus the end turned out rather ill-fated.


And you wonder whether it’s true
that your fate always gives you a clue?
It’s the pleasures you miss
if you wait for the kiss
and the aftereffect
of the glue.