Poems From the Privy: or Outhouses of the Rich and Famous

Poems from the Privy

  or

  Outhouses of the Rich and Famous

  By Gary E Miller

  rev 1

  Copyright Gary E. Miller, 2014

  Cover design by Lenny Everson

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  Chapter 1: Limericks and a Haiku

  An architect, Christopher Wren,

  Planned an edifice to awe all men;

  It had high, thick, stone walls

  And a dome like St. Paul’s,

  And bells that could rival Big Ben.

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  Adolph Hitler, Führer of the Hun,

  Had an outhouse uniquest bar none;

  By some Aryan goof

  It was built with no roof

  Which gave him his “place in the sun.”

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  Said Trudeau: “In the ‘house’ on the Hill,

  I never fail to get a thrill.

  The reason I’m tinglish?

  Signs in French and in English

  And the décor multiculturill.”

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  Sigmund Freud was an expert on sex

  Whose outhouse was a fine triplex

  With seats for the ego,

  Id and superego

  Of each user who had a complex.

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  Sir Walter Raleigh’s loo once had a

  Mast and (perhaps it was sad) a

  Half-moon in the door.

  Folks asked: “What’s it for?”

  “To remember the Spanish Armada.”

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  The Buddha’s outhouse was a swish one,

  But maybe a somewhat selfish one:

  The seat was newfangled

  And curiously angled

  To be used in the lotus position.

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  Lord Horatio Nelson’s own “head”

  Was for him specially constructed:

  It was made for a guy

  With one arm and one eye,

  “Like my dear Emma’s boudoir,” he said.

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  The painter Picasso’s own loo

  Was a work of art, and puzzling too:

  It was built of odd cubes

  And coloured with tubes

  Of paint in flesh pink and sky blue.

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  Said Henry the Eighth: “Goodness sakes!

  What can I do about my jakes?

  Each queen that I’ve mated

  Wants it redecorated.

  You know how much money that takes?”

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  Rin Tin Tin was as glad as could be

  In the park where he could wander free;

  No shake, sit, or beg ─

  He just lifted his leg,

  For his outhouse was simply a tree.

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  Richard Wagner’s outhouse was grandissimo,

  Decorated with props, that-and-thissimo ─

  Horned helmets, cups, spears ─

  While to challenge the ears,

  A stereo played opera fortissimo.

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  Einstein’s privy was wondrous to see;

  The door said: “Mc2= E.”

  Albert’s comment was terse:

  “In the whole universe

  It’s the best . . . at least, relatively.”

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  Sherlock Holmes, of the late nineteenth century,

  Whose thinking was quick and sequent-ery,

  Said: “The need for the shack

  Which is standing out back

  Is clearly, dear Watson, alimentary.”

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  Mackenzie King led our great nation;

  His outhouse should bear his quotation

  To make all users merry:

  “Constipation if necessary,

  But not necessarily constipation.”

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  A danceuse named Gypsy Rose Lee

  Had a powder room bare as could be:

  A sink, mirror, and john,

  And a chair to sit on:

  “It’s the model that’s stripped down,” said she.

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  Winston Churchill’s loo fit to a vee

  With cigars and a stock of brandy

  And plenty of seating

  To handle a meeting

  Of the whole Privy Council, you see.

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  Sir John A. Macdonald from Scotl-

  and certainly was not teetotal,

  Nor was his “house” spartan:

  It was papered in tartan

  And had a large shelf for a bottle.

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  Queen Victoria’s men were confused

  As the specs for her “house” they perused:

  Black walls in great stretches;

  No graffiti or sketches,

  So the monarch would not be amused.

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  Roger Bannister’s outhouse has style

  To honour his four-minute mile;

  On the floor, starting blocks;

  On the wall, several clocks

  With stoppable hands on each dial.

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  Napoleon, a man who’s well known,

  Needs an outhouse which stands all alone;

  Back and arms all complete

  And a smooth marble seat,

  For an emperor sits on a throne

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  To Marie Antoinette, Louis said,

  In a voice that was shaking with dread:

  “The outhouse of Versailles

  Could be somewhat less high

  For we’ll soon be shorter by a head.”

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  George Washington, man of renown,

  Had his privy outside of a town;

  By an orchard it stood,

  Of the best cherry wood,

  Which Georgie himself had cut down.

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  A businessman, Timothy Eaton,

  Said: “My catalogue takes quite a beatin’:

  It is ripped into sectors

  Cuz the Board of Directors

  Isn’t the only place I’ve a seat on.”

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  Cleopatra, “The Queen of the Nile,”

  Wanted one which would viewers beguile;

  It was built, of all places,

  In a palm-treed oasis,

  And was pyramidal in style

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  Julius Caesar, who mastered the arts ─

  Politics, warfare, winning of hearts ─

  Needs a “house” elongate

  For his triumvirate,

  Divided, like Gaul, in three parts.

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  Pythagorus had a privy

  Built of shapes from his geometry.

  He said: “I’ve found a use

  For the hypotenuse

  And its squares in my ‘hy’-class pot-ty.”

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  St. Francis, a man of soft words,

  Had an outhouse as special as Lourdes:

  To aid all feathered breeders,

  It was fringed by large feeders.

  He said: “My privy’s for the birds.”

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  Artist Emily Carr said that she

  Had a most unique w. c.:

  It was a totem pole

  Which stood on a knoll

  With a sign on the lintel: “Wyck, Klee.”

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  The perfect way to

  Honour the Japanese loo

  Is with a haiku.

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  Chapter 2: Longer Poems

  HISTORIC SITE

  When postman Dally brought
the mail from town,

  Dad got it from the box and frowned a frown:

  “Mayor Stonehart and his council say our old

  Outhouse is an eyesore; we’re hereby told

  To raze it ─ there’s a fine if we do not ─

  And seven days is all the time we’ve got.”

  Mom said: “Well, there’s no use hawing or humming;

  We don’t need it now we have indoor plumbing.”

  “Yeah, Dad,” I added, “when’s the last time you

  Used that old outhouse?” “There’s a lot more to

  It than that,” Dad said. “My great-grandpa built

  It with his own hands and I’d feel some guilt

  To wreck a building that has served our family

  For generations since great-grandma AmyLee.

  It’s a . . . historic site--eyesore it ain’t.

  It needs a plaque . . . and maybe some new paint.”

  Dad called Mayor Stonehart, but things still looked bleak:

  Our “house” was doomed and in only one week

  Unless we could prove that it had importance

  (Besides its use by grandpa and Aunt Hortense).

  The history of our town is rather vague,

  But famous people shunned it like the plague:

  Generals Wolfe and Brock, Riel, John A.

  Had all stayed many, many miles away.

  With one day left, Dad had an inspiration:

  He telephoned the Mayor an invitation

  To come for one last talk. “Now, Ma,” said he,

  “Make lots of pie and cake, coffee and tea.”

  The Mayor arrived and he was adamant,

  But full of Mom’s dessert one thing he’d grant:

  If we could prove an undisputed link

  Between our “house” and someone famous (Think,

  Think, I thought) he’d take the edict back;

  What’s more, the council would pay for a plaque.

  After more cups of tea, Mayor Stonehart asked

  To use our bathroom. Dad just barely masked

  His glee, but said, without a trace of smirking:

  “I’m sorry, but our bathroom isn’t working.”

  The Mayor looked desperate. “If you have to go,

  There is the privy out the back, although

  It is condemned, of course.” The Mayor rushed out.

  When he returned, Dad said: “Without a doubt

  There’s no one more important than our Mayor;

  Maybe when we put up the plaque out there,

  You’d be named as one by who it was used.”

  The Mayor looked puzzled, pleased, proud, and confused.

  “All right,” he said, “your old outhouse can stay.

  We’ll make it an historic site today.”

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  THE HAUNTED “HOUSE”

  We were all proud when we got indoor plumbing--

  Except Grandpa: he said it was slumming

  To have such things inside the house, so he

  Continued to use our old wooden privy,

  Enjoying cowboy songs, a nasal flow

  (With static) from a portable radio.

  When Grandpa died, we said :“Let us abandon

  The house; until it falls, just let it stand on.”

  The best laid schemes o’ mice and men, we know,

  Gang aft a-gley, and it was surely so

  For us because our modern family heirloom

  Broke down, and we were left in deep and dark gloom

  Until some hard-to-get replacement parts

  Could be found and installed by plumber’s arts.

  So once again, reluctantly and nervous,

  We pressed the ancient privy into service.

  In life, we knew, Grandpa was somewhat feisty,

  But now his ghost became all poltergeisty:

  Door hinges snapped and down the deep round hole

  Plunged toilet paper, full roll after roll;

  While singing voices terrified the sitter;

  They sounded like Gene Autry and Tex Ritter

  And Roy Rogers, till Dad could not endure it

  And swore that he would get rid of “that sperrit.”

  He took Grandpa’s old radio and sat in

  The house; full blast, it made an awful din,

  But not the western tunes Grandpa adored;

  No, hiphop, rock, and heavy metal poured

  For hours from the portable until

  The batteries died. When they did, all was still,

  And Dad said proudly: “I don’t like to boast,

  But I think we have exorcised our ghost.”

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  BRIGADOON

  It’s not important, but my name is Darrell.

  Three years ago, I was in direst peril:

  Hitchhiking on a flat, straight, main highway,

  I needed a washroom in the worst way;

  No gas station or restaurant in view,

  For miles just empty spring fields with a few

  Farmhouses, and I knew ‘cause I could see

  Them, they could also see desperate me.

  Suddenly, just beside the road I saw

  An outhouse! In my mind I yelled “Hurrah!”

  And rushed inside. What pleasure is there equal

  To sitting down ─ and naturally, the sequel?

  Inside it was clean, light, and well supplied,

  While in my frantic entrance I had spied

  A sign above the doorway: “Brigadoon.”

  I exited into the light of noon;

  A man was standing there with kindly eyes.

  “I’m sorry . . .“ I said. “Don’t apologize;

  That’s what it’s there for. There’s a bit of mystery

  To Brigadoon. You want to know its history?”

  I nodded. “Years ago a man named Phil

  Was in a plight like yours, and vowed: ‘I will

  Create a privy for the use of those

  In need.’ He did, and now it comes and goes,

  Invisible till wanted. By the way,

  My name is Phil.” I turned: to my dismay

  Brigadoon had vanished! Then I drew

  My gaze to Phil . . . and he had vanished too

  It could not have been one of my mind’s pranks

  And I thought: “Phil, for this relief, much thanks.”

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  Chapter 3: The Author, Notes, and Dedication

  Gary E. Miller ─ the pretentious “E” is to differentiate him from several people who have plagiarized his name – was born and raised in Tillsonburg, Ontario (the tobacco town immortalized in song by Dr. “Stompin’ Tom” Connors) in 1933, the same year as the Beerhall Putsch in Munich (1933 was a bad year for the world).

  After graduating from high school, he earned, – or received – a B.A. degree from McMaster University, tried to teach English in high school and university, acquired an M.A. in English, and was part of the greatest marital disaster of the twentieth century.

  In 1995 he made his greatest contribution to education by retiring. He began to try to ape the great writers whose works he had taught, producing soporific short stories and poor poetry. Being old, he is old-fashioned and uses rhyme and metre, being especially fond of the sonnet and the limerick.

  He lives in the country near Richmond with his second (and better) wife, Donna, two cats, and a beagle who thinks he is a member of the area's resident pack of coyotes.

  Besides Poems from the Privy, he has written several other chapbooks, including The Poetry of Saddam Hussein, Where on Earth, and Lysistratus, and has co-authored two others with Lenny Everson, as well as his parvum opus, Miller's Tales (and Poems), a collection of his writings, which was a worst-seller in 2010.

  Notes on the Poems

  “The world is a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those that feel.” ─ Horace Walpole

  “He thinks too much.” ─ William Shakespeare

  I am
not a writer; I am only a person who occasionally writes. Having little time for Chaucer’s “craft so long to lerne,” I use brief forms ─ the haiku, limerick, sonnet, or ballad ─ so that I can compose in my head while I walk the dogs or cut wood.

  The world has plenty of serious literature anyway, works with deep insights and great messages. I am content to be the Ovid of the outhouse, the Pagliacci of the privy, and perhaps to bring an occasional smile to someone’s face.

  Dedication

  Would anyone want a collection of scatological verse dedicated to him or her? But at the risk of offending them, I’ll mention my wife, Donna, friends such as Wendell, Wilson and Carol, Dick, Larry, Wally, Bruce, Rob, Tony and Janet, and Sister Mary Clare, and the fine teachers I had over the years. Of course, I had some bad teachers too, and maybe it would be more fitting to remember them.

  Finally, let us honour that great benefactor of humankind, Queen Elizabeth I’s godson, who invented the flush toilet.

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