Mail for Sale
Looks like the end of an era,
But I’m not drinking a toast -
They’ve sold off everything else,
And now it’s the turn of the Post.
They’ll give the postmen a pay-rise,
And bribe them all with free shares.
It’s like they don’t give a toss any more;
It’s as if nobody cares!
It’s not the service that counts any more,
But the profits the investors are after,
With our protests not likely to be heard,
Over the sound of their laughter.
It won’t be for the public’s benefit,
So don’t be surprised by what you get:
Things’ll get worse, rather than better,
I think we should be willing to bet.
In private hands it just won’t be the same,
In the ownership of these go-getters,
And we’ll find we haven’t got a clue,
About who’s handling our letters.
Goodbye to EiiR on the post-box,
And farewell to old Postman Pat:
There’ll be no room for duffers like him,
Nor for his black-and-white cat.
Goodbye to the royal insignia -
I suppose all that stuff will be dead.
They’ll come up with some fancy new colour,
And there’ll be no more Post Office Red.
Goodbye to the little vans in the lane:
There’ll be no more of our friendly old postie -
A figure from the age of the Penny Black,
A memory, like an old ghostie.
Soon they’ll stop the daily collections,
Down into the town we’ll all have to tramp.
They’ll charge us for every delivery,
And ramp up the price of a stamp.
Is there nothing sacred these days?
Is everything destined to fail?
No – you can’t depend on anything,
Once they’ve sold off our Royal Mail.
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