Farewell to the postal service
Running down the coastal route;
Local owls will whisper, nervous,
“The night mail doesn’t give a hoot.”
Heavy packages and parcels
Sent from Par to Prestonpans
Will only strain the metatarsals
Of the men who drive the vans.
Sweaty credit-cards and letters
Sent from Uncle Tom Champagne,
Plans to make us better debtors
Will not ride a midnight train.
While the night is mooning at us,
When the daylight falls and fails,
Alas! no night mail! Nothing matters:
The world is off its darkened rails.