Singing to the tune of “Oh, Tannenbaum.”...
Oh, FedEx man. Oh, FedEx man. Where are you now, oh, FedEx man.
The Nigerians are busy being Nigerian. But could you please return my passport.
Oh, FedEx man. Oh, FedEx man. Come quickly now, oh, FedEx man.
Since the Nigerians are being Nigerian, I think I’ll be Nigerian too. Tomorrow, today, whenever we get around to it.
Oh, FedEx man. Oh, FedEx man. Where are you now, oh, FedEx man?
I once lived in a rental house with lots and lots of roommates. And then one day we discovered we could no longer bear to take a shower in our only bathroom because the hot water pipe had completely clogged up. We made several phone calls into the main office over the next 2 or 3 months and continued to shower under the frigid spray, except for myself. I don’t shower. Finally, we could again not bear it any longer...that is, everyone but myself...and so we made up this cute little song about the broken shower and how we didn’t know which was worse, the stench of our mingled odors or the frigid spray. We sang it into the machine of our absentee landlord in full part harmony. Soon thereafter, a workman showed up at the house to replace the clogged hot water pipe. He was well rewarded.
Perhaps I should make up a little song about a broken sewing machine that needs a motor. Perhaps, I could swing by Switzerland enroute to Nigeria and pick up a motor or two for the others who are waiting too. Perhaps, it might grab the manufacturer’s attention if I sang it on the radio: a sorrowful song of a severed relationship, of oily tears as she sits alone at night upon the workman’s bench, waiting for new innards.