Small fish, small packages, small town Post Office. Big SpLaSh!
Knee-high, mud roads or dorsal deep snow.
It might be raining toads with a forceful windy blow.
I needs to ship beads from a "no serve zone" so,
my chainsaw please for fallen trees as a tour into town I must go.
I'll bite, somewhere, as you've seen in these reads
but, write this to share of my bling slinging deeds.
There's these three, I would dare, don't care I'm from weeds
and are each "Lass of first class" in my fish beads biz needs.
My post office hosts three "Mail Femme Fatales".
Here's a roast enveloped toast to their transit commitin' spells.
They treat me too well despite my audacious smells.
I'd streak streets on a camel to these gracious "Mail Mademoiselles"