Autumn approached as the Postlord walked the footroad past some children eating Rupert’s fingers, Roundellos and salty harrumph’s while playing the battle of gridlington; the Postlord thought of what he would eat that night, Bunglespleen and Her majesty’s sugar Barnet, while looking for a cottage and wishing he had worn his leg sleeves as he corrected the postal code of a letter.

I got the joke, but I figured I could still have fun with it... even with bad grammar.