The Outhouse
The service station was slow
The owner sat around,
With sharpened knife and ceder
stick
Piled shavings on the ground.
No modern facilities had they,
The log across the rill
Led to a shack, marked His and
Hers
That sat against the hill.
"Where is the ladies restrooom, 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 startled look and beet-red
face
She bounded through the door,
And headed quickly for the car
Just like three gals before.
She missed the foot log - jumped
the stream
The owner gave a shout.
As her silk stockings, down at her
knees
Caught on a sassafras srpout.
She tripped and fell - got up, and
then
In obvious disgust,
Ran to the car, stepped on the gas,
And faded in the dust.
Of course we all desired to know
What made the gals all do
The things they did, and then we
found
The whittling onwer new.
A speaking system he'd devised,
To make the thing complete,
He tied a speaker on the wall
Beneith 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,
"Will you please use the other hole,
We're painting under here!"