Give Up, the Postal Service

another-sunset-beach

Kafka cross the shore did run,
With spirit unconquered ‘nieth the sun,
And joyous as the battle beckoned,
A postal slaughter to be reckoned.

Sheathed in pin-striped battle sheets
He takes his mighty tool of feats,
The shining unshatterable Bic,
His servant loyal and quick.

Long had he laboured ‘neith the shameful yoke,
The postals numerical slur,
His Hallstead to friend was known as The Great Oak,
But 40 to mailman cur.

Oh lovely she was, with a gold breast full fair
Her back coated in fine flaxen hair,
Reclined ‘neith the morning light,
Licking herself wit pure delight.

He groaned aloud; It could not be,
That she did play ‘pon a postman’s knee.

Though all the while he pursued the quest,
Sat upon a stool by a writing desk,
His violence took letter form,
And his losses were undelivered porn

With righteous hand he set these skirmishes,
Alas ignored by the postal services,
For a reply he must wait a week and a day,
While all the good of man passth away.

Consulting the minds of wisest scribe,
His horoscope for the twenty-ninth,
in pick-me-up, (it makes a week)
T’was there, the truth he did seek.

Venus’ entry to the third house,
He who’d be lion, is but a mouse,
To avoid true terrible disgrace,
Do not fall flat, upon your face.

But Lo! the allotted day did come,
Not the reply he’d banked upon
But thinking of the beauteous maid,
He schemed a scheme that could not fail.

Roughly he took her and rode away,
His steel steeds wheels screaming in pain,
And though there was but seat for one,
It was a wicker throne she sat upon

And tho’ he kept himself fully masked,
But there was but one with such a basket,
So, eagerly he sent the ransom note,
A house name changed or her throat!

Alas the postman mightily did shrug;
He cared not a wit for the flea bound rug,
So our hero lives still in numerical ignominy,
But his feline friend he loveth whole heartedly.

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