People look upon these civil servants with a slant eye and specious looks.

Aware of the repugnancy of their fate, the mail men walk the street like so many merchants of death.

Not through sleet nor snow nor blizzard of powdered peril, the mail stops for nothing.

They are so hip and suave, but we know.  We all know the truth.  Everybody gets mail. 

Perhaps the erudite mailman has to cozy up to the post office manager, with a ten-spot and a forty bag of cheap blow, beg for favors such as having their personal mail passed to the 'extra-care' sorting pile, where they have plague sniffing dogs who snuff the stuff up and keel over at first split of the envelope.

(One shot dogs.  Brought in from a private kennel in the basement.  At the height of this war, the corruption inherent in the system will be evidenced by the unceasing smoky spout of the incinerator down at the local P.O., where they've been burning stacks of doberman day and night.)

Unless that's the bizzarre gig from the start:  organized war on our mail system.  All the joy has left being a mailman, and it could definitely get worse.