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Replying to a comment on:
Tales From The Outhouse (Lyric) by -=Dark_Angel=-, P.I. Once more against our lower'd breeches,
The Outhouse shows its mettle.
Fearing not our plumpen'd peaches,
Tho 'gainst its hide they settle.
Where stainèd flesh meets wooden shack;
The two entwined in shame.
And ever black
'neath straining crack:
The Outhouse is its name.
Perched upon a reeking pit,
Secluded, and alone.
'til such a time as we see fit
To grace its lowly throne.
Our wails bestain the swollen night,
Beset in wooden frame.
Where falling shite
Betrays our plight:
The Outhouse is its name.
Coilings plummet unto earth
And wallow in the sand,
As buttocks spend their shilling's worth
Upon the lacquered land.
And tho' our bow'ls be filled with sin,
'tis better that we aim
With filthy grin,
Into the bin:
The Outhouse is its name.
Beastly howls! What hell hath come!?
Who toils 'pon midnight's bell!?
'tis only Father Blunderbum
Who isn't feeling well.
As preacher duels in tug-of-war
He plays a deadly game -
With thund'rous roar,
Falls through the floor:
The Outhouse was its name.
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