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Revisiting ‘Please Mr. Postman’ – The Marvelettes’ Iconic 1961 Chart-Topper!

Introduction

“The Marvelettes – Please Mr. Postman” is an iconic song that has left an indelible mark on the world of music since its release in 1961. With its infectious melody and heartfelt lyrics, it continues to captivate audiences of all generations. But did you know that this song has a fascinating backstory?Today in Music History: The Marvelettes went No. 1 with 'Please Mr. Postman'

Did You Know?

  • “Please Mr. Postman” was the debut single of The Marvelettes, an American girl group hailing from Inkster, Michigan.
  • It became their first and only No. 1 hit on the Billboard Hot 100 chart, making them trailblazers in the music industry.
  • The song has been covered by numerous artists over the years, showcasing its enduring appeal.
  • The Marvelettes’ harmonious vocals and the catchy tune of “Please Mr. Postman” have made it a timeless classic.Wanda Young, Former Lead Singer of the Marvelettes, Passes Away at 78

Video

Lyrics: Please Mr. Postman

(Wait) Oh yes, wait a minute, Mr. Postman
(Wait) Wai-hey-hey-hey-it, Mr. Postman

(Please, Mr. Postman, look and see) Whoa yeah
(Is there a letter in your bag for me?) Please, please, Mr. Po-oh-ostman
(‘Cause it’s been a mighty long time) Whoa yeah
(Since I heard from this boyfriend of mine)

There must be some word today
From my boyfriend so far away
Please, Mr. Postman, look and see
Is there a letter, a letter for me?
I’ve been standin’ here waitin’, Mr. Postman
So so patiently
For just a card or just a letter
Sayin’ he’s returnin’ home to me

Please, Mr. Postman
(Please, Mr. Postman, look and see) Whoa yeah
(Is there a letter in your bag for me?) Please, please, Mr. Po-oh-oh-ostman
(‘Cause it’s been a mighty long time) Whoa yeah
(Since I heard from this boyfriend of mine)

So many days, you’ve passed me by
You saw the tears standin’ in my eye
You wouldn’t stop to make me feel better
By leavin’ me a card or a letter

Please, Mr. Postman, look and see
Is there a letter, oh yeah, in your bag for me?
You know it’s been so long
Yeah, since I heard from this boyfriend of mine

You better wait a minute, wait a minute
(Wait a minute, Mr. Postman)
Whoa, you better wait a minute
Please, please, Mr. Postman (Wait a minute, Mr. Postman)
Please check and see
Just one more time for me

You gotta wait a minute (wait), wait a minute (Wait a minute, Mr. Postman)
Oh you better wait a minute, wait a minute
Please, Mr. Po-ostman (Wait a minute, Mr. Postman)
Don’t pass me by, you see the tears in my eyes

You better wait (Wait)
Wait a minute (Wait a minute, Mr. Postman)
Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute
(Wait, wait a minute, Mr. Postman)
Please Mr. Postman

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FROM A MAN WHO JUST SAT ON A STOOL… TO A VOICE THAT SILENCED THE WORLD In an era where Nashville was drowning in rhinestones and stars who ran across stages screaming for attention, Don Williams did the unthinkable. He didn’t run. He didn’t dance. He simply… sat down. He walked onto the biggest stages in the world wearing a crumpled hat that looked like it had been dragged through a Texas dust storm, not bought in a boutique. He carried a cup of coffee, placed an old stool in the spotlight, and rested his boot on the rung. Promoters were nervous. “The crowd needs a show,” they said. “They need fire.” But Don knew something they didn’t. When he opened his mouth, the screaming stopped. The chaos vanished. His voice wasn’t a firework; it was a warm fireplace in the middle of a cold winter. It was deep, steady, and rattled the very soul without ever raising in volume. They called him the “Gentle Giant.” While others fought to be the loudest in the room, Don Williams proved that true power doesn’t need to shout. He sang about simple love, good friends, and quiet moments. He turned a wooden stool into a throne. He didn’t conquer the world with noise; he conquered it with peace. “I don’t believe you have to be loud to be strong.”

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WHEN “NO SHOW JONES” SHOWED UP FOR THE FINAL BATTLE Knoxville, April 2013. A single spotlight cut through the darkness, illuminating a frail figure perched on a lonely stool. George Jones—the man they infamously called “No Show Jones” for the hundreds of concerts he’d missed in his wild past—was actually here tonight. But no one in that deafening crowd knew the terrifying price he was paying just to sit there. They screamed for the “Greatest Voice in Country History,” blind to the invisible war raging beneath his jacket. Every single breath was a violent negotiation with the Grim Reaper. His lungs, once capable of shaking the rafters with deep emotion, were collapsing, fueled now only by sheer, ironclad will. Doctors had warned him: “Stepping on that stage right now is suicide.” But George, his eyes dim yet burning with a strange fire, waved them away. He owed his people one last goodbye. When the haunting opening chords of “He Stopped Loving Her Today” began, the arena fell into a church-like silence. Suddenly, it wasn’t just a song anymore. George wasn’t singing about a fictional man who died of a broken heart… he was singing his own eulogy. Witnesses swear that on the final verse, his voice didn’t tremble. It soared—steel-hard and haunting—a final roar of the alpha wolf before the end. He smiled, a look of strange relief on his face, as if he were whispering directly into the ear of Death itself: “Wait. I’m done singing. Now… I’m ready to go.” Just days later, “The Possum” closed his eyes forever. But that night? That night, he didn’t run. He spent his very last drop of life force to prove one thing: When it mattered most, George Jones didn’t miss the show.

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