A warm, quiet kitchen in a nice but unassuming council house,

No sounds but a stove warming something for breakfast, and the tick tock of a wall clock,

And a grandad, once a soldier, now a postman, quietly reading the paper,

And a knee on which a sleepy eyed little boy could sit, and listen to stories as he'd gently rock.

 

There were stories of postal mishaps, battles, bullets and brave chaps,

Windows broken by a stone, poorly thrown at a snapping dog, pushbike deliveries in the fog,

A particular Christmas round when every house, had a tip for the postie and shot of Famous Grouse,

To point where his regulars found him slumped in an alley and had revive him with sweet tea.

 

And a little boy would sit on his grandads knee and pay attention sleepily,

On a comfy chair right next to Stovetop, with the soft tick tock of a wall clock,

And they'd laugh at all of the daft things and accidentally pissed up deliverings,

And his bullet wounds, and chewed postie's hat, in a warm kitchen for a stovetop chat