In the Aussie scrub
in the blue-collar hub,
when an indoor toilet unlikely;
the dad would knock up
a tin shed (with luck),
‘round the ‘hole in the ground’ lavatory.

Dark and scary at best
not a nice place to rest,
kids and women held on for ever;
‘till they’re busting to go
and they’re facing the foe,
of the crater, and its’ fetor.

Why, many a kid
has fallen in,
much to their shock and dismay;
guess that is why
dads’ didn’t dig,
these pits just as deep as a grave.

The spiders would lurk
the light never worked,
and the door rarely shut (if you had one);
if the paper ran out
you would have to shout,
half a mile to the house, ”help mum!”

Thunderbox and dunny
the throne the library,
aka bathroom, but only by few;
the john or the can
the stool or potty chair,
never presumed to be a wash room.

There are still some around
but thanks most have found,
a flush toilet to be a necessity;
and such bliss it seems
to have no more bad dreams,
of the old Aussie backyard accessory.