A Quiet Frigid Postman

One day, on a quiet rigid night,

Creeps a quiet frigid postman,

With a quiet frigid kite,

I broke the frigid silence,

By groping frigid pear

But then he turned around

And returned the frigid stare

Then suddenly out of nowhere

His thumbs began to quake

Shoulders bristled meekly

In his muffled, frigid wake

His quivered skin turned to mustard

His face became a sieve

The sky turned red and whimpered

It had no one to forgive

His eyes began to lactate

His spleen began to chafe

Tears streaming down his weakened breasts

He knew he was not safe

I then began to kick his balls

To test for his reaction

But soon I realised

Of course

He’s having a contraction!

And what of the postman?

The one that had the face

He gave birth to a stamp,

A completely different race

Before he came to terms

A tongue grew from the ground

Spitting at the postman

With a tiny, frigid frown

The tongue then licked the stamp

It crumpled with a hiss

But then appeared a surfboard

The stamp gave a frigid kiss

The Turban- wearing Norman

Caressed the sticky stamp

He kissed a loving beer can

And threw it at a tramp

And then at once the board flew

I stood and deeply sighed

Because I think we all knew

The postman, he had lied!


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