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The service station trade
was slow
The owner sat around,
With sharpened knife and cedar 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
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 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 sprout.
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 owner knew.
A speaking system he'd
devised,
To make the thing complete,
He tied a speaker on the wall
Beneath 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!" |
