Page 25

 

O fair Maywood, thine streets I spy
And happ'n upon a truck of mail.
O fortune, speed me in mine enterprise
And with a mail cart find salvation.
Into the bowels of Higgins' Realm
Darken'd hallways impede my flight.
Damn'd cart! Damn'd cart! Thou
Odors reek of Bon Appetit!
Opal light that blindeth mine eyes
Wherefore?
'Tis the den of postage!
O, woe is me, a foolish wretch
My path is blurred with indecision.
To hide or not to hide?
That is an option.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mail room
To created debauchery in means
Of false mail slips.
To think. To dream.
To figure a way out of this wicked scheme!

 

If you want to hide in the cart, turn to Page 38.
 
If you fill out fake package slips for people, turn to Page 31.