Category: Postman

PROLOGUE – THE MAILMAN ANALYZES HIMSELF

I’m p’lite and charming, sweet, and nice–
I spread it thick enough to slice:
I’m cheerful, happy, carefree, gay–
A pity I don’t stay that way!

PART the FIRST–EARLY MORN

To folk who live upon the first
Part of the route that I traverse,
I blithely call,”Good·Morning!” gaily,
I whistle, sing, and do so daily;
My every step is full of spring,
I effervesce, that sort of thing.
With head held high, erect go I,
Full of spirit, Do or Die.. .

To all these folks we idol be,
I, my ma-yil sack, and me.

PART SEC0ND– 10:00 a.m.

To folks along about the middle,
I am a funny sort of riddle:
Today I’m nice, refined, and sound,
Tomorrow, other way around;
One day I grouch, the next I smile,
Tuesday bubble, Wednesday, b’il.
People eye me tentatively–
For they are never sure of me,
As this is my uncertain spot–
Monday cold, and Tuesday, hot;
For whether I’m tired, as yet, or not,
Determines the postman they have got.

PART THIRD–11:45 a.m.

But comes the noon, and I’m half dead;
I’m half alive, but spirit’s fled.
I look and walk and act much older;
My fuel’s low; my fire is colder.
As I approach the nether end,
I’ve passed the place where I unbend;
Keeping upper lip from folding over
Is apt to make one stiff all over.
But ‘tho I may be ment’lly stiffer,
Physically I beg to differ.
I mooch along, half crouch, half stoop;
My necktie withers, shoestrings droop.
I scarcely crawl–I creep, I lag,
I barely move, I fold, I sag
As half I carry and half I drag
The empty but heavier mail-bag.

But O the change, in pefsonality!
From saintly mien to rascality:
I rudely stare at people who
Discuss the rain or sky of blue;
I crab, I frown, I snarl, I growl;
Year-old babies dread my scowl;
Little girls playing with littler brothers
Run and hide behind their mothers.
To folks who’d pass the time of day,
I tell, “Sure, yeah, some other day!”
To all these folks I IDLE be–
(They spell it a wee bit differently).

CONCLUSION

The moral of this small storee
Is that I walk too much for me!
I’d be quite a’ cheerful guy
If half-hour’s an hour had I…

The kind of impression that I give
Depends alone on where you live;
And if you’d like me to improve ;
The best advice I have IS MOVE!

by Ray Romine Saturday, May 1, 1943

I’m glad I’m not a football fan
And have to work like this–
Just think of Saturday afternoons,
And all the games we’d miss!

A player, rather, would I be,
And risk some sprains and breaks–
At least he gets some credit
For the BEATING that HE TAKES!

by Ray Romine Saturday, October 3, 1942

The postman brings us letters–
And sometimes only ads.
Some belong to mother,
While some of them are dad’s.

But when the postman whistles
And smiles and says “Whoopee!”
He doesn’t have to mention
That letter is for me!

by Ray Romine Thursday, February 14, 1952

How does the letter-carrier man
Improve each shining minute?
His mind–is it upon his work,
Are heart and soul poured in it?
Does tramping with a load all day
Inspire him to the limit?
That spark of fire we’re s’posed to have–
Will this, in future, dim it?

I imagine thoughts of senile ease
Are what relieve the tension;
For, after 30 yeers of this,
Him they will someday pension!
“Now if my legs can stand the gaff,
If feet and heart can take it – -“
(I know now what he’s thinking of:
He’s PRAYING he will MAKE it!)

by Ray Romine Friday, October 9, 1942

The epitome, one day, of speed,
It’s now a slowly plodding steed.
While airplanes change from gas to jet,
This oldster barely crawls as yet.
Letters from New York to Phillie
Go round about, or willy-nilly.
Glad tidings, or those of disaster–
You could walk them there much faster,
And nothing makes me boil and fry
Like valentines in mid-July.
“Neither snow nor rain nor gloom”
Is shoved aside to leave us room
For Donaldson’s new motto clever:
“Surely better late than never.”
But what gets through, and on time too?
The circular with postage-due!

by Ray Romine Wednesday, March 12, 1952

Five of us are in 1-A:
More are soon to be;
Why none of us, though, seems to care
Might seem a mystery.

All are married; all have kids;
Wives, too, whom we love;
Christmas coming–seems a shame
To have to off-ward shove.

Clerks and carriers, though, they know:
Why we aren’t warmish:
Beside our s.nnual Christmas rush
Induction’s but a skirmish!

Japs and Germans they may charge,
Bombs may fall and scatter–
But we’ve been through the Christmas mess,
And trifles are no matter.

This, of course, is far from true.
We wanta stay: you’ve hit it!
We’re scared as heck from feet to neck,
BUT WE ‘RE DANGED IF WE’RE GONNA ADMIT IT!

by Ray Romine Friday, November 26, 1943

This definition fits the duffer:
A uniformed waste-basket stuffer.

by Ray Romine Saturday, September 23, 1950

No fancy feats;
No bands; no blurbs-
He crosses streets an
And steps off curbs;

Through rains and fogs
He’s super-Hades;
Ile fights off dogs
And irate ladies;

Sweat or zero,
Your mail is carried-
Yet he’s no hero ,
Alive or buried.

by Ray Romine Friday, September 23, 1949

We’ve instant coffee, instant tea,
Soaps that suds up instantly;
Planes are streamlined, faster, stronger–
But the mail takes a little longer.

We’ve this that’s quicker, that and those;
Press a button, wash the clothes.
Some things progress; but, in arrears,
The mail goes hack a hundred years.

We laugh at, and we make a spectacle
Of anything that’s unelectrical;
And now, thanks to our wizards sage,
We ‘re edging the atomic age.
The world may move; the PO stays
The good old horse and buggy days….

by Ray Romine Saturday, March 29, 1952

Despite cuts, you
Who look will find
Mail still gets through
(A week behind) .

by Ray Romine Tuesday, November 14, 1950