An Ode To "The Outhouse"

          The service station trade was slow
          The owner sat and rocked around,
          With sharpened knife and cedar stick
          Piled shavings on the ground.

          No modern facilities had they,
          Just a log across the rill,
          It led to a shack, marked His and Hers
          That sat against the hill.

          "Where is the ladies restroom, sir?"
          The owner leaning back,
          Said not a word but whittled on,
          And nodded toward the shack.

          With quickened step she entered there
          But only stayed a minute,
          Until she screamed, just like a snake
          Or spider might be in it.

          With a startled look and beet-red face
          She bounded through the door,
          And headed quickly for the car
          Just like three gals before.

          She skiped the log, and jumped the stream.
          The owner continued to rock about,
          As her stockings, down at her knees,
          Caught on a sassafras sprout.

          She tripped and got up, and then
          In obvious disgust,
          Ran to the car, stepped on the gas,
          And faded in the dust.

          Of course we all wanted to know
          What made the gals all do
          The things they did, and then we found
          That the whittling owner knew.

          A speaking system he'd devised,
          To make the thing complete,
          He tied a speaker on the wall
          Behind the toilet seat.

          He'd wait until the gals got set,
          And then the devilish tyke
          Would stop his whittling long enough,
          To speak into the mike.

          And as she sat, a voice below
          Struck terror, fright and fear.
          "Please use the other hole,
          We're painting under here!"

[ Author Unknown -- from andychaps_the-funnies ]


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