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Author Unknown
The Old Gas Station
Author Unknown

 

 


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"