ON THE ROYAL MAIL
Santa Claus delivers but once a year to you,
Yet he receives far more recognition than our postmen do.
Up at four each morning,
A ten-hour shift ahead;
Sorting through illegible addresses,
Fighting that overgrown tree and hedge.
They wear the Royal logo,
But Tories treat them more like slaves:
‘Sell ‘em to the highest bidder,’
That’s what Cameron says.
The price on the Queen’s head will soar
If Thatcher life is renewed.
Don’t get mad at posties for being on the picket line;
They’re doing it for you.
poem by Bryony Harrison, copyright 2013.
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