Letters you’ve been waitin’ for and letters that you prize;
And you sit and cuss the postman, and you cuss the bloomin’ mail,
And maybe you cuss the writer and pile it good and thick,
But have you ever stopped to think of his end of the stick?
You can sit in cosy rooms back home, the Post does all the rest.
Perhaps to post a letter you walk a block at best.
And then you sit and wonder why the devil don’t he write?
To keep us all awaitin’, it’s a shame–it isn’t right.
And you growl like a grizzly. Sure; you’d make an Indian sick,
Just because you don’t know anything of his end of the stick.