Sunday, January 3, 2010

Ode to a Commode

Here's something goofy I wrote in High School that I found while cleaning out the file cabinet.


Ballad to a John
(Ode to the Commode)
Perched high up on a hillside stands
a very homely shack.
It's braved the months of drifting sands
it never turns its back.
It's sought after when travelers
return from tiring treks.
Their eyes fall on that two-seater
more quick than one expects.
They settle on the freezing ring,
recall the days events,
stare at the rusty door-hinge spring
examine all the dents.

The crescent moon etched in the door
-a sight for weary eyes.
Much blackened wood of deepest pore
makes up its dark disguise.
In summer it's the warmest spot
but when the summer's gone,
ice covers what the grime does not
-that good ol' outhouse john.


The flies preside in this domain:
both sides of fly-proof screen.
Official flies they do ordain
to govern the obscene.
These closets are in high demand
regardless of locale.
We hope that folks do understand
and understand, they shall.


At times the line grows rather long,
we all know very well.
So listen to the sound and song
emerging from the cell.
Selections range from folk to pops,
the tango, and a march.
The entertainment never stops
-it lasts from dawn 'till dark.
In summer it's the warmest spot
but when the summer's gone,
ice covers what the grime does not
-that good ol' outhouse john.


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