Just been rooting through old poems, sonnets
In congested ring-binders, days of old
When to type and print out your latest thoughts
Seemed modern. How quaint! Paper, you can fold
And even post it! Postman in the cold
Like the milkman or coal-deliverer
You are all spectres from an age not gold
I was a paper-boy, pushed newspaper
Through letter-box. A box made for letter,
Birthday and Christmas card, or wrapped presents
In jiffy bags and parcels bright and bold
People posed in costly animal fur
Their jewels on show, doorway of The Ritz
Riches - the dream with which we're all beguiled
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