The postman cometh …

The postman cometh,

and he bringeth the Jacana Saturdays of Gold.

But he sure hath taken his time.

With the rising of eighteen suns

and the setting of those same suns,

he has been on his way.

Perhaps he was waylaid by the Red Indians,

and did take an arrow in the breast?

Perhaps in the wet monsoon,

he was doing the doggie paddle

across swollen rivers,

with the Jacana Saturdays of Gold

balanced on his head.

Or what if he was taken prisoner

by the Cannibals?

And to avoid being eaten,

was obliged to marry

the Chieftain’s daughter?

The ugly one.

The one with whom

the other cannibals would not lie?

And it took him days

to make his escape?

I cannot fathom why

he did not fly on wings

of giant silver bird.

But perhaps he did not have the strength

to kick-starteth the engines.

Especially after lying

with the Chieftain’s daughter.

So methinks part of his journey

was with Mrs Charles Lindberg

in her open cockpit mail-plane,

crossing the Alps,

clutching the Jacana Saturdays of Gold

to his frozen bosom.

Then by pony express,

streaking across the plains,

with the Jacana Saturdays of Gold

safely in his saddle bags.

And finally by sailing proa,

spindrift in his eyes

and a gale tugging at his toupe.

But finally,

the Jacana Saturdays of Gold

are safely on the island of Langkawi

in the Malacca Straits.

And also in Munich of Germany,

and Kota Kinabalu of Borneo.

And Hilton and Wakkerstroom.

And the CSIR and Xantah,

and the Pretoria Girls High,

where the talk

is of the Jacana Saturdays of Gold.