There's nothing unusual about the way my day begins

As I walk up and down the streets with my mailpouch in my hands

I've run this route for years everybody knows my name

Especially at the old folks home which I call the House of Shame

The old folks home is my last stop that's where I end my daily rout

And my mailpouch is usually empty by then not always but just about

Except for an accosional letter and they all wait anxiously

With sad eyes that said the question is there anything for me

And I hear their trembling voices as they talk back and forth

I guess the children're just too busy to write

They've got a lot of things to do of course

And I try to cheer 'em up and say things to make 'em feel better

Then I think to myself just how little effort it takes to write a letter

Their old and wrinkled faces and hair as white as snow

And memories locked up in their minds that only they could know

I spent many hours there at the end of each day's run

Trying in some way to fill the place of a daughter or a son

And I listen as they tell me of their families of days gone by

And the sadness there at times is so great I can't help but cry

And thought it's reality it seems more like a dream

That some of them have grandchildren that they've never even seen

And I think it's just a shame that children they have raised

Would put 'em in this House of Shame to spend their later days

So there they sit just waitin' waitin' for letters they never get

Waitin' for children that never come by waitin' just waitin' to die

You see my folks are old now too and we've put 'em in a home

But the difference is they live with us and they'll never be alone