Poetry Wednesday The Old Gas Station.

The  Old Gas Station
 

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  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 guy,
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."

Take the Poetry Wednesday Tour Here.

This is not an original by me. It was sent as an email and because I loved the humour here in this little verse, I just had to share. Milli 2008.