If
Elvis had not croaked whilst having a brown, and was thus alive today, he'd
have to re-write the words to Return To Sender. Because in today's shabby
metric obsessed world, where knowing you are fucking useless because you have a
scorecard is better than actually being good, the following lines would need to
be rewritten:
I
gave a letter to the postman, he put it his sack
Bright
in early next morning, he brought my letter back
It
would now have to be:
I
gave my letter to the postman, he gave it right back, the then told me that he
is not authorised to take post and that in order to send this I need to attend
the local postoffice, which of course was shut down years ago, so local now
means 20 miles away, where a surly git will ask me questions to which I just
don't know the answer. 20 miles, one hour and £4.65 later, my letter is now on
the way.
Four
days later, even though I have been in all the time, there is a card on my door
step telling me that the postman had breezed past my house in his van and could
not be arsed to do his job, so if I could possibly go to the collection office
I could have my letter.
The
collection office is of course 20 miles away, and despite always having a queue
of at least 15 people, has space inside the office for just four, so I spend 30
minutes in the pissing rain, finally to be told that my letter was
undeliverable. Too fucking right it was matey.
Would
that make a better song do you think?
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