Now that we’ve moved it in the house,
We soon forgot what came before.
The little house out in the back
With crescent cut-out in the door.

No ‘lectric light to read books by,
No heat to shield from winter cold.
But countless tales of this small house,
Down through the ages have been told.

The one that my poor memory holds,
Written in indelible ink,
The year Dad had decided that
Our outhouse should be painted pink.

Mom thought Dad was being silly
But we kids thought that it was neat.
My grandpa made a few comments
That momma said not to repeat.

When Daddy put the two coats on,
It was the pinkest pink I’d seen.
He put his paintbrush in a can
And washed it out with gasoline.

He poured it in the outhouse hole,
He later said to help the smell.
Now Grandpa was the only one
It seems, that Dad forgot to tell.

When Grandpa has an urgent call,
Best no one get in Grandpa’s way.
But this was one trip that he made
He will remember to this day.

He sat down on the outhouse seat,
His corncob pipe all packed to light.
He struck his match, no trouble there,
His bottom sealed the hole real tight.

The problem came, I’m sure you know,
When Grandpa tossed it in the pit.
The NASA rockets of today
Might best him by a tiny bit.

When men spin yarns down at the store,
They say that winters come and go…
The strangest one that they’ve all seen…
The winter that we had pink snow.