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(With apologies to W.H. Auden)

This is the junk mail I didn’t order,
Promising luxuries I can’t afford, a
Bargain for the rich, teasing for the poor,
The same dreary offers we’ve had before:
New double glazing, half price this time,
Discount on a pizza that tastes sublime,
A walk in bath for when I get older,
New central heating if winter’s colder.
Every day when the postman passes
I put on my reading glasses
Hoping for mail as he approaches
Dash to the hall where my hat and coat is.
Post for me, or just more dross?
Again it’s junk for me to toss
In the big blue bin by the garden fence
To go round again, it makes no sense.