In The Outhouse (Lurks A Lady)

in the outhouse

by the peace pipe

lurks a lady

near the ass wipe.

like a phantom

with a hardon,

in a dish rag

saying so long

to a candle

singing for me,

but she'll never

win a tony.

'cause the carpet

stained with toe jam

lost a contest

in her trash can.

seems that weirdos

on her jukebox

passed out needles

while in detox.

but the moral

of the story

isn't known yet

there's no glory.

she's a jackknife

with no handle;

broken pieces

in a pfandl.

she's like blown glass

with no offspring

just a briefcase

and one earring.

she's a roadblock

holding traffic

to a standstill

by some heat stick.

hope she lingers

for a while

on the staircase

or the stile,

'cause i want to

build a footbridge

cross her river

of hot porridge;

but her tantrums

drinking sloe gin

leave me tone deaf

with a clothes pin.

i can't take it

when she's sleeping

on a mattress

with no box spring.

she has breakfast

every evening

in a birdbath

and it's freezing.

she sees rejects

over cloudbursts

and sends post cards

wearing pampers.

then some desk clerk

winked his eyeball

so she quickly

made a phone call.

now they hopscotch

nearing midnight

with no shoes on

or a flashlight.

they are two seeds

in a jam jar

going nowhere

in a sports car.

curse the outhouse

by the peace pipe

and the lady

near the ass wipe