by Neal Bosshardt
(On the first morning of a scout summer camp, I had a near miss experience in a portable toilet
when my wallet fell out of my back pocket and landed on the floor behind my foot. This poem resulted from that.)
When summer camp is over
and winter is coming on,
we’ll think back with such fond memories
of that chemical “Dear John”.
That sweet smelling chemical toilet
that on Monday smells so nice.
It’s a pleasure to go in it,
It sort of smells like spice.
On Tuesday it’s still not too bad
though scouts have used it more.
Just be careful where you sit, and
“Hey, who did that on the floor?”
On Wednesday there’s an odor
that reaches a country mile,
and before you sit, you take a stick
and level off the “pile”.
By Thursday it’s quite obvious
It’s plain for all to see
the experience would be more pleasant
if you just went behind a tree.
By Friday I’d decided not to go again.
I’d grit my teeth
and hold real tight
and keep it all within.
But the stew we had for supper
decided to change my plan
I knew I’d have to go real quick
so I headed for the ‘can’.
I took a breath and stepped inside
to a fate that’s worse than death.
I pushed real hard and hoped to finish
before I had to take a breath.
Well, when I finally finished
and pulled up my pants at last,
I heard from back behind me
a soft and gentle splash.
I turned and looked; I just got sick,
I thought my heart would stop
for there was my brand new wallet
slowly sinking through the slop.
I knew I’d have to act real quick,
there was no time to wait
or my wallet would be history,
sealed in it’s ‘stinky fate’.
I grabbed my watch, and then my hat
and threw them in with my high school ring,
cause there was no way I was reaching in there
for just ‘one’ single thing.