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Pity The Poor Posties

Oh pity the poor Posties

Who work near Nigel’s friends

For every year at Christmas

To them his cards he sends.


He writes just like a spider

That’s had too much to drink

And then been forced to line dance

With legs all dipped in ink.


It’s not so bad for sorters

They’ve got high-tech machines

For working out them hieroglyphs

Once read by ancient queens.


Their scanners can do Sanskrit

Chinese, Russian and Greek

Yet out there on the pavements

It’s Nige of whom they speak.


Their sacks should carry tidings

Of festive peace and cheer

But all you hear are curses

As at his scrawl they peer.


Envelopes at arm’s length

Held up to the light

“It must be here,” they mutter

“If sorters got it right.”


They knock at likely houses

Cry out if folk they spy

“D’you know a chap called Nigel?

“His friend must live nearby.”


They call at local pharmacies

Who well know doctors’ script

To work out just one letter

Would really be a gift.


Then through some Yuletide magic

They finally reach their goal

Pop the card through letterbox

And back to base they stroll.


As round their tree they settle

There comes a mighty shout

“You’re very nice young Nigel –

“But please just TYPE IT OUT!!”

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