The Last Words of the US Postmaster General
There were some dirty mail boxes
and shattered glass
beside the post office,
dirty disheveled streets—
Graffitied and nearly covered
with stickers and spray paint,
they roused his ire
and they cried out for removal,
he said. Gimme cleanliness—
They're an eyesore —lock them up.
The people don’t need them
for mail, ballots, medication,
or the delivery of baby chicks.
Give me something to destroy!
He said, Let me take you
to the back room, he said,
and after you’ve come to your senses,
you’ll see it was for the best.
When you’re Postmaster General
you can do as you please.
He smiled, Yes
you can do what you please, first
then, I can do what I please—
Oh, oh, DeJoy of it all, he cried
as the maintenance men
lifted the bar code sorters
and carried them to the hauler —
Is this what you call
progress?
By now his mind was made up—
Oh death to the post office
he said, death to the workers
sorting the mail by hand.
No overtime, he said, but I'll tell you
you don't know anything.
Then we started.
On the way
we passed a long row
of mail boxes. He looked at them
awhile out of
the window and said,
What are all those
funny looking blue boxes doing out there?
Well, I'm tired of them
and he rolled them away.
Give me something to destroy!
Let me take you
to the back room, he said
and after you are recovered,
you can do as you please.
He smiled, Yes
you do what you please first,
then I can do what I please—
Run it all into the ground.
a parody on WCWs poem
beside the post office,
dirty disheveled streets—
Graffitied and nearly covered
with stickers and spray paint,
they roused his ire
and they cried out for removal,
he said. Gimme cleanliness—
They're an eyesore —lock them up.
The people don’t need them
for mail, ballots, medication,
or the delivery of baby chicks.
Give me something to destroy!
He said, Let me take you
to the back room, he said,
and after you’ve come to your senses,
you’ll see it was for the best.
When you’re Postmaster General
you can do as you please.
He smiled, Yes
you can do what you please, first
then, I can do what I please—
Oh, oh, DeJoy of it all, he cried
as the maintenance men
lifted the bar code sorters
and carried them to the hauler —
Is this what you call
progress?
By now his mind was made up—
Oh death to the post office
he said, death to the workers
sorting the mail by hand.
No overtime, he said, but I'll tell you
you don't know anything.
Then we started.
On the way
we passed a long row
of mail boxes. He looked at them
awhile out of
the window and said,
What are all those
funny looking blue boxes doing out there?
Well, I'm tired of them
and he rolled them away.
Give me something to destroy!
Let me take you
to the back room, he said
and after you are recovered,
you can do as you please.
He smiled, Yes
you do what you please first,
then I can do what I please—
Run it all into the ground.
a parody on WCWs poem
