Colin F. Jones


We do not have a letterbox,
‘Cause it has rusted all away,
‘Twas wedged there in among the rocks,
Till at last it did decay.

Lots of letters it did eat
To fill its little belly,
‘Twas the only post box in the street,
Between the black stump and Janelle.

Once a week the postman came,
Except when the drought was bad,
Or the place was flooded by the rain,
Which was pretty bloody sad,

But we got a letter every month,
And a dozen in December,
Dated back a year or two,
As far as I remember.

Me grandad built it back in ten,
Cut it from a set of sheers,
From a plough broken when
He disturbed some wild steers.

Due to lack of trees, he got some rocks,
From up beyond the Tilbra,
Wore out all his boots and socks,
Waltzing his Matilda.

Grandad got a letter too,
The same as dads and mine,
The primed minister is wanting you,
To do a bit of time,

Overseas on foreign shores,
To kill a Turk or three
In order to protect what’s yours
And keep our nation free.

So now the post box it is gone!
Grandpa and dad as well,
And now that my old life is done,
I think I’ll rest a spell.

… And on the rocks all burnt and yellow,
A bit of paint still clings,
And none of you would know that fellow,
Who still the mail sack brings.

Submitted for the February 2002 IWVPA Theme Project, “The Letterbox