WESTERN RHYMES: PRIVY READING

OUTHOUSE HUMOR

The place you don't want a committee
Is when you're seated inside the privy
Sharing is caring, but not there
Not when half of me is bare
So please have heart and forgive me
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There are Inn houses and gin houses
Dog houses, cat houses and bird houses
Houses made of bamboo shoots
And houses of ill repute
But don't mistake Inn houses with outhouses
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Here I sit all alone
In a little room with a wooden throne
Reading by the light of the moon
Cut in the door to light the room
Thunder by nature's sousaphone
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Alone in the privy, late at night
With a kerosene lamp for light
Dried petals from a rose
A closepin for your nose
If the smell don't get ya, the bugs might
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In the custom art of tipping, I say
Not ten or fifteen percent - no, neigh
Never be hesitant
Or even negligent
When tipping an outhouse, go all the way

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A feller dropped a fiver in the Jakes
Then he didn't even hesitate
Dropped an Andrew Jackson Down
A fiver ain't worthwhile to get a feller from town
But for twenty five, I figure, he'll negotiate
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The ad said: Cheap Room for Rent
An old outhouse, weathered and bent

The landlord couldn't believe his eyes

Much to his surprise

The occupant had sublet the basement

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A room for one or two sitters
Must be Bullseye hitters
Aim good, fire when ready
Hold 'er still and steady
And hope there's no critters in the shitter

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Some go there for the use

Billy the Kid used it as a ruse

Nuns, Priests and Missionaries

Everyone has the necessaries

That's how Bell let the Kid vamoose

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Sears and Roebuck on the nail

Warsh water in the pail

All alone - you think

Then you smell the stink

And see the skunk tail

BEWARE THE WARNING CRY

Out the window it goes

Now everyone knows

What you ate

Last night at eight

Is now down below

A chamber pot nightmare

A custom without care

A flush was a card hand

Until the WC was planned

Erasing one need to swear

If you only knew

What the chambermaid do

From way up high

Came the cry

Gardyloo

DOORS

What's a feller supposed to do

When he can't figure out which door to choose

Standing there in desperation

Hoping for some consideration

Should he use door number one or number two

It's not like a Television game show

The poor feller's just gotta go

But someone was cruel

With signs for the stool

And labeled them so no one would know

Standard signs for each gender

"LADIES" or "MEN" from the vendor

Are replaced by humor

For the unwary consumer

Likely to become a "wrong-door offender"

Sometimes it's simple to figure out

"COWBOYS" or "COWGIRLS" leaves no doubt

But confusion ensues

A wrong door might amuse

Or cause one hell of a shout

Sometimes it's frustration

When a feller is in desperation

Holding back

A bladder attack

And premature urination

Sometimes it's a good guffaw

When your teeth don't need to gnaw

No need to worry

You're in no hurry

Just laugh at the chutzpah

When comfort rooms are outside the gate

The owner makes it easy to decide your fate

Men, first tree to the right

Ladies, left, out of sight

All others need to go straight

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THE DOUBLE DECKER OUT BACK

You've heard of a two-holer outhouse, I'm sure,

But what about a two-story privy for the elite,

Or possibly even for the demure?

That way, two occupants never need to greet.

It was a real thing, I'm told, though I don't know.

First-hand knowledge, I'll confess, is missing.

But, imagine the poor feller in the cellar, on the go,

When the customer on the upper level is pissing.

But still, only half as bad down below,

As when the high-and-mighty up above,

Have a gastronomical expulsion show,

With deposits they wish to dispose of.

But that's not even the worst of it all.

There is still a piece of this story, left for your amazement.

'Cause what I should have told you first of all,

Was about the feller who had to use the basement.

This image is a 1941 photograph of a two-story outhouse
located at 458-460 Agnes Street in Indianapolis, Indiana.
It was built around 1913 behind a four-unit apartment building.

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THE CHANGING OF THE GONG

Bang the Gong, you say.

But do you know what game you play?

The word you use,

Could mean refuse.

Tudor times used the word -

For a common human turd.

More polite than shite.

Gong farmers worked at night.

A modern revenue AI firm,

Now uses the name, I'll confirm.

But do they know what they say,

Meant something else in another day?

Time heals all wounds it seems,

And the stigmas of society's extremes.

Where once a gong-farmer was secluded

Now, the skills have been excluded

The gong you bang is no kin,

And shares no associated sin.

Technology and modernization win,

Where old-school must give in.

But let it be known all over,

A gong-farmer made sweet clover,

But a gong-banger is paid -

Not according to the noise made

They shared only one commonality -

The mallet swinging ability.

To bang a drum loud enough,

To avoid smelling the stuff.

[pause for effect]

But wait, did I hear you want more?

You're not quite ready to close the door?

In Tudor times, "Gong," from the word "Gang,"

Meant "To Go" - like when you get the pang.

Which makes me really wonder,

If we don't make a modern blunder,

When we fail to see the danger,

Of using terms like Gang-Banger.

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A WHOLE LOTTA HOLES

From Hole in the Wall to Jackson Hole,

To Brown's Hole in Wyoming

To Pierre's Hole or Big Hole Pass

It took an outlaw a hell of a lot of roaming

And of course, there is Hell's Hole

Or, more rightly, more than one

And Little Hole, and Horse Thief Hole

And a lot more before the outlaw is done

Robbers' Hole, Starvation Hole and Wolf's Hole

Almost every state in the West has a hole

Arizona has its Hole In The Rock

Another place to hide a bankroll

In Nevada, it's The Devil's Hole

There's a whole mountain range in Idaho

The Big Hole Mountains in Teton County

If you have some loot the law don't know

Hole in the Ground is out in Oregon

Booger Hole is found in three states

Lewis and Clark found Ross Hole

Laramie, Wyoming is in a hole, make no mistake

When you're busted, you're certainly in the hole

But that's not the same thing, is it?

Regardless of your legal standing,

That's a whole lotta holes to visit

Well, there are doughnut holes

And holes in a lotta stories

Many an outlaw got a hole in the head

Back in the days of the territories

And there are black holes in the sky

The Swiss put holes in their cheese

There are a lotta holes in fish nets

And, of course, the holes no one sees

Matter of fact, no one has ever seen a hole

It's an impossibility because it's not there

It doesn't exist. It's nothing but a void

That's it! A hole is nothing. Nothing but air!

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PRIVY READING

WESTERN RHYMES

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