Poem

Ode to John


Awake, up and at 'em
Nature calls but I can't fathom,
what awaits in the port-a-loo
The morning humidity, and fresh baked poo

But what am I to do?
When it's that time we all must drop a dime
Relieving yourself is no picnic at Bonnaroo

I take my place in line, TP in hand
Crossing my legs, doing the best I can
Just a few more ahead of me,
let's hope they pee
It'll all be over soon
My own private hell,
in a tiny plastic room

A young man makes an exit,
his smile is less then pleasant
I wave on the next person
All I hear are angry groans and cursin'

Finally I can wait no longer
If I do, I'm a goner
It makes my task no fonder
I sit and ponder
Holding my breath,
resisting stench from down yonder

Tears swell in my eyes
At any moment I'll cry
Buzzing over head,
a massive horse fly
The lack of hygiene makes me want to die

Sweat drips,
the temperature is rising
I tear three strips
I need no more,
quite surprising

I'd finished what I came to do,
pitying the next to come through
Relieving yourself is no picnic at Bonnaroo

-J.R.