When I was a lad, we had a dunny out the back,
just a hundred feet away from the house,
down a little narrow track.
I never paid a call, as often as I should,
because upon opening the door,
the smell, boy, was it good.
Once inside, it was cold, dark, and clammy,
sitting there with my parts all bared,
sent shivers up my tummy.
At night, with the blankets over my head,
I would give thanks,
for the chamber pot, stowed under my bed.
Once, while in the toilet, in the rain,
a large spider, bit me on the leg,
jeepers, what a pain.
I was up, and out of there, as fast as I could run,
screaming, dad, dad, dad,
a bloody great spider, just bit me on the bum.
"Quiet, quiet, son" he said,
"you are making enough noise to wake the dead."
Now, when I am in the toilet, with its air conditioned heat,
sitting ensconced upon my china throne,
my mind drifts back to that old bush dunny,
with its solid wooden seat.