A  shocking   ballad


A  town  way  off   in  the  western   scrub
has  two  points  where  the  folk  can  meet :
The  first place  of  course is its  only  pub
The  major  building  in  its  short  main  street.

Close to it stands the Community Hall,
A far from impressive edifice :
but when  they  hold  what they call a  Ball
for the dancing it generally does suffice  .

It hosts entertainments in various ways,
like infrequent auctions of rural acres
and jumble sales, where the funds they raise
go to sustain some needful takers .

But most Friday nights are given over
to an evening  of cultural  delight   
dedicated to the movie lover :
a double feature picture night.

The evening  is treated as a Big Night Out,
but before the show starts they breast the bar,
each one honouring his turn to shout   
and sometimes imbibing too many a jar.

Thence to the Hall where, with no surprises
for the unwise ones, (and the certainly sadder,)
through the first film the pressure rises
within each dangerously filling bladder.

So at the interval the host descends  
just like the ocean's primal surge
on an outside toilet the Hall owner intends
to relieve at once only two men's urge.

It had been thought that two stalls were plenty,
enough to cater for male patrons all,
but faced with many more than twenty
somewhere else the long rain must fall.

Where then to turn for  gentle ease
against a burning pain intense?
The immediate reaction is to find release
and of course -  it's  up against the fence.

Now that fine  fence had a precious history
and was its builder's joy and pride
enclosing within it the private  mystery
of a solitary life he preferred to hide .

Tall and straight, sheeted galvanised iron:
on it the arcs of liquid  drummed  
as it made a target for the lads to fire on,
and under the onslaught it tautly thrummed.

By the noise the owner was not disturbed
for the fence stood up to the onslaught well,
but by one thing he really was perturbed:
that is, the resultant offensive smell.

It made no difference, complain as he might
about that Friday habit's persistence.
Then one day after another long  night
of golden showers, he showed resistance.

He  connected the fence to a motor bike part:
he depressed the pedal that made the spark
and listened with joy that filled his heart
to the shrieks that re-echoed through the dark .

History has not recorded  his fate.
It may lie in  private tales deep down
or be part of a drawling rural debate.
But one thing is sure.  He has gone from that town.