Mailman’s wasteland

On old country roads

His truck carries loads

He sets his eyes on his horizon

The dust he kicks up

His thermos and cup

The sun on his back it’s arisin’

Don’t think

Don’t pause to drink

Your sitting in mailman’s wasteland

O’Rielly leaves at dawn

His daily map is drawn

Fire in his eyes replaced by burning in his legs

The journey’s at an end

No time to talk to friends

Or get together

Even though your life begs

Long drive

No need to strive

Your sitting in mailman’s wasteland

 

Copyright © 2017 Grant Fenton – All Rights Reserved

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