My little heart is filled with despair. I live in London, I'm a millionaire.
I work with people who call me Sir. I work with people who wouldn't care
if thugs broke into my house in Mayfair, stole my Warhol and tied me to a chair.
Love, love, love is everywhere. When, when, when will I get my share?
He's a little bit twisted
and his house is grade two listed.
He loves his wife very much
but sometimes she can't get in touch
because he's on a sling somewhere
being fisted by a lady
from Weston- Super-Mare.
Phil May is singing his little heart out
in his black shirt and black slacks.
His Elvis legs are all over the place
and the audience are entranced.
If I had one ounce of his charisma
I would consider myself blessed
and if this was Britain's Got Talent
the golden buzzer would be pressed.
As I walked past Poundstretcher Extra
I caught a glimpse of my reflection
and for once wasn't repulsed by what I saw.
In fact I felt that good about myself
I threw my cap into the air like Mary Tyler Moore.
Don't wear white trousers down Dame Judi Dench Walk.
I know someone who did and they ended up in a coma.
Dean Wilson was a postman for twenty years and loves Hull City and Patsy Cline. He's been published in Rising, the Rialto, Magma, the North and the Slab. His chapbook There are Worse Things I Could do Than Write a Poem or Two Is published by Dancing Sisters. Confessions of a Redundant Postman is his first full collection and is out next year on Wrecking Ball Press.