I enjoyed this NYTimes article titled, “I Love the Post Office” not only for the opinion of the author but because it had this:

Yet there are pleasures to be had, beyond the masochistic ones. At the same Brooklyn post office where I saw the boy nearly blinded by the bag, there is, amid the self-inking stamps used to label mail, one that reads “PRETENTIOUSLY HAZARDOUS.” So flawless was this, so in perfect pitch with the light-speed-changing neighborhood in which it sits, that I thought maybe I had dreamed it up. So I returned and there it was again, the accidental poetry of an author within the United States Postal Service, some 625,000 men and women strong and $5 billion on the bleeding side of its yearly operating budget.

And sure enough that pretentiously hazardous phrase had seven syllables which I mulled over while doing stuff at home today. First it made me think of mailed glitter ‘bombs’ – the gift that keeps on giving. But in no time at all, my brain had turned to the consumer of all things pretentiously hazardous: Wile E. Coyote (and The Road Runner).

Are you sending a
pretentiously hazardous
item in the mail?

A box of glitter,
pretentiously hazardous:
a thing forever.

Wile E. Coyote:
pretentiously hazardous
crate of dynamite.

Acme sends their best
pretentiously hazardous
Road Runner live traps

Exploding, crushing,
pretentiously hazardous.
live to try again.

The box bears the stamp:
PRETENTIOUSLY HAZARDOUS
but you break the seal.