Only those who have used a bush toilet would fully appreciate this. 




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

No "all mod cons" did they have there.
A log across the rill
Led to a shack, marked "His and Hers",
That leant against the hill. 

"Where is the ladies' rest room, sir?"
The owner, leaning back,
Said not a word but whittled on,
And nodded at the shack. 

With quickened step she entered there,
But only stayed a minute
Before she screamed, as though 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
As others had done before. 

She missed the foot bridge, jumped the stream.
Their owner gave a shout,
As her silk stockings, down at her knees
Caught on an acacia 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 girls 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'd tied a speaker on the wall
Beneath the toilet seat. 





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

And as she sat, a voice below
Struck terror, fright and fear,
"Would you please use the other hole-