The genre might come - from Siberian moms
And I hear it is called Russian folklore
The thing is it's sad - and it always ends bad
After hardships are death always called for

Mostly set in the yore - where they lived on stomped floors
As did Ivan the herald in this story
This postal man knew - that his mail must come through
Nonetheless if the weather was roaring

His route was the pride - of Baikal's northern side
It went back, forth and home every season
He felt never wayworn - as he travelled forlorn
Never once called in sick, that be treason

He packed up his sack - and some dried beetroot snacks
As he left for the route that he had planned
And later that night - in the ol' pale moon light
He could hear the first wolf in the woodlands

The storm had him tired - but that was required
And he thought there's no way he'd be failing
So with his face blue - he did struggle on through
With his plight to deliver the mailings

Then snow came down hard - but as thoroughly scarred
He stood up as the ice flakes came slashing
When afternoon came - he was still up for game
But his horse now required some lashing

Their fate turned unfair - they encountered a bear
Limping forward as it been surmounted
With cold heart and skin - and the mare wearing thin
They both fell as Ivan tried to mount her

The horse it gave in - and became a has been
Ivan's whole trip and life was in peril
And later that week - so his legend bespeaks
Came the end of old Ivan the herald

As everyone know - the Siberian snow
And its winds have caused mammoths to quit it
He crawled all the way - and it's thought to this day
With just fifteen less letters he'd made it

With stamps higher prized - or some letters revised
He might have made safe from the slaughter
But all that remained - after wolfs made him game
In a shoe was a note to his daughter

The wolf pack it howled - and old Ivan was fouled
Within view of his house in the morning
Of Ivan it's said - he killed seven wolfs dead
But most legends are know for adorning

He fought tooth and nail - and he died for his mail
Coming through as a postal defender
And though postmen now plough - as the winter winds blow
Still that man from Siberia's remembered

In a forgotten grave - somewhere Ivan was laid
It got stamped by his wife, now ethereal
His death was ill-timed - she in week twenty-nine
She starved dead without Ivan the herald

This genre might come - from Siberian moms
Now you know how it goes, Russian folklore
It's always this sad - and it always ends bad
And in tune even this song's now done for