They married in June one afternoon in a church down by their home.
She wore the ring his mother gave him the day that he left home.
They danced before their families and they held each other close
And on that lovely night in June, oh he loved her so.

The war took him to Paris, one year since they had wed.
He packed envelopes and cigarettes, ink and his fountain pen.
He said, "I will send you letters each week that I am gone,
And I promise you'll feel better, when the postman comes."

The war had passed on slowly and his boots had lost their tread,
But still he wrote his letters, this week this one had said,
"You are always with me even when I feel alone
And this rifle bears a burden and it's heavy on my soul.
But you won't have to miss me as once this war is won,
We will be together when the postman comes."

She opens the door to a man with a telegram
A sad look on his face.
She wipes away a single tear as she hears him say
Something about the military, apologies, and the ministry
And she fell, to the floor.
She questioned him, said you've got this wrong,
My husband's fast, my husband's strong
And I promise you'll know better, when the postman comes.
If you've received this letter, it means the worst is done.
I'm sorry and I love you, this isn't what I want,
But you will find another and I will understand.
I just hope he loves you more than any other can.
I sent you all these letters and for reasons there's just one.
It is me you will remember
When the postman comes.
When the postman comes.