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 two shacks, 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 shacks
With quickened step she entered there
But only stayed a minute
She screamed so loud --like maybe 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 right 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 outhouse?
We're painting under here"
Author Unknown Page by Mary Jones
2004