John Prine was a mailman before accidentally becoming a songwriter.
Postal workers see every single person in society, or at least their mail. Maybe that absorbs into who they are. Or something, I don't know. It's a last minute song. Eh.
lyrics
The written words delivered to a door
Penned by others
In times of yore
Some IOUs to keep the water on
Traded for labor
Long gone
The paper children trusted to be taken to their homes
Carefully delivered by the one who walks alone
In all the neighborhoods across the land
The one who knows where everybody lives
From sprawling mansions
To humble digs
The hopes and dreams are right against the skin
Just for a moment
It must soak in
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