Sasquatch stamped!

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 A thousand stamps from far and near,
With queens and cats and space frontier.
A knight, a fish, a bird mid-flight—
A flamingo dressed for disco night?

They’re tiny windows, art galore,
Of culture, history, postal lore.
But wait—hold up—what’s that I see?
A hairy guy in aisle B3?

He’s mid-stride in a forest mist,
On a stamp you almost missed.
No postmark yet, no place, no date—
Just Bigfoot in a pondering state.

“Should I’ve combed my fur today?
Will they send me USPS or sleigh?”
He’s not a myth, he’s postage now—
And honestly, he’s crushed somehow.

So next time you go stamp-spotting,
Amid the trains and fruit and plotting,
Just know the Squatch is always near—
Forever first-class... but still unclear.