Our postman is much nicer than the one in this poem. When I noticed recently that a letter had the wrong name on, he offered to take it back, and wrote this magic phrase on it:
“This letter’s not for me,” I said when the postman came today,
“The address is right, but the name is wrong. Please take the thing away.”
“It’s number nineteen on your door,” growled the postman in a fury.
“Of course it is, it’s where I live; but the name is Judge, not Jury.”
“Look, you’re nineteen, so it’s for you, I don’t care what your name is.
If you ask me, it’s the sender’s fault – that’s where the bloomin’ blame is.
The GPO have got a rule that says I must deliver
A letter to the place it says.” Well, that got me all a-quiver.
We altercated on the step: he lunged towards the slot;
I countered with a burst of speed I didn’t know I’d got.
But posties get well trained these days: he’d just been on a course
On getting letters through the door with a maximum of force.
He punched it through the letterbox. He’d beat me, that was that.
The letter was delivered – there it was, upon the mat.
’Twas then I knew what I must do to spite this vile offender:
I popped it back in the post next day, inscribed “Return To Sender”.