Chapter Text
Every morning at half past nine,
From over the hills the postie arrives,
Yes, every morning come rain or shine,
(Although perhaps, the finer the better)
Here he comes to deliver the letters
Up to the pink house up on the hill,
Up the yellow path, if it's there still,
Up to the blue door of the bastille,
Up comes the postie in his blue cap,
With a friendly smile and the smell of sap.
