When I was young I delivered newspapers

Carried in a bag over my shoulder

I rode a big yellow bicycle

Early mornings before school

The storekeeper wrote the house number on each paper

Arranging them in delivery sequence

I took the exact same route daily

To make sure everybody got the right paper

Houses in England have a flap in the front door

For delivery of mail and newspapers

Weekdays they slid in easily

But those fat Sunday editions would jam in the flap

Some homeowners were so nice

Meeting me at their open door

With a smile and cookie

Thanking me daily

Others were mean and grumpy

You ripped my newspaper

Why are you always late

You left my gate open again

Dogs were a challenge

Some of them were friendly

Others wanted to attack

You had to learn the hard way

I got soaked when it rained

That bag would get so heavy

Mud splattered my clothes

I got tired pedaling so far

Posh houses were the worst

Their kids would make fun of me

From inside their warm houses

I wiped extra mud on their newspapers

It was hard work and low pay

I was happy to earn small change then

Early mornings you can still see me bike riding today

But I only carry memories around now