The Mailman (composer: Aleck Rand)

Get back! — Don’t get next to me.
Go ‘way! — I’m bad news, you see.
Your wallet — Just wants to be set free.
Too late! — Now it belongs to me.

(Interlude) Well, boys and girls it ain’t the end of the world and I’ll tell you why.

I just — Want your nice green cash.
I won’t — Throw your wallet in the trash.
Not me — I’ll mail it back to you.
All your plastic and paper and license, too.

(Interlude) That’s why in my trade, they call me “The Mailman.”

My Pa — He was a flim-flam man.
I was his pupil and biggest fan.
Let me tell you ‘bout his greatest scam.
He did it to mean ol’ Sam.

(Interlude) Pa didn’t give a damn ‘cause Sam was a bad man.

Twelve whiskey bottles — Pa would use.
Eleven — He filled with rot-gut booze.
The kind of whiskey that you might use
To de-grease your workin’ shoes.

(Interlude) We’re talkin’ White Lightnin’, plus a little molasses for color.

The twelfth bottle — got the best bourbon.
At the front of the case, it was the only one.
Pa — offered Sam a couple o’ sips.
Pure heaven — curled across Sam’s lips.

(Interlude) Yes, you can always count on human greed.

Sam took — that case at half the bourbon price.
He thought — my Pa was bein’ real nice.
Paid up — without even thinkin’ twice.
Sam grinned — like the cat who ate the mice.

(Interlude) Now, let me show you how wicked my fingers really are.
Guitar solo

I don’t — use no distraction.
I have — never packed a gun.
No accomplice — to share my fun.
My fingers do the walkin’, so no need for one.

(Interlude) No lyric

I’ll lift — whatever you’ve got to bring.
You won’t — feel a single thing.
Don’t fear — ‘bout no identity theft.
Don’t look now — because I just left.

(Coda) But your wallet, your plastic, your pictures, your license will arrive shortly courtesy of the U.S. Mail.

(Sound of doorbell) Why, that didn’t take long.