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 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.