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"
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