It's pretty quiet where I live
In my small one-bedroom flat
I'm used to peace and solitude
But now something's changing that
Every morning I hear the dragging
As an overloaded sack
Is led up my garden path
By my postie's bent, strained back
No, I haven't made the big time
Or got an over-attentive lover
They're not letters from a pen-pal
Or my over-anxious mother
In fact the only missives
That come addressed to me
Are ones demanding money
For electricity
The bulk of the mail that comes
Provokes curiosity
The names are an assortment of strangers
But the address belongs to me
So every morning after breakfast
It's like entertaining friends
I open the wonderful Christmas cards
That one gregarious person sends
It's been this way, day after day
Through November and December
But I wonder why each card I read
Is from my parliamentary member
I'm starting to get annoyed now
More than a little over-rort
Because I haven't received a card yet
Thanking me for my loyal support
In elections we all have a roll to play
But I can't begin to guess
Why he is writing to all these people
At my humble street address
I'm sure he's not feeling sheepish
Just pulling the wool over my eyes
If I am the lamb to the slaughter
It would come as no surprise
My hope is that some shepherd's son
Will have the final laugh
Cause I'm sure that sack's not the only one
Who's been led up the garden path
Helen Ramoutsaki