Scurring through flurries or rushing through rain,
At morning or midnight the pathway was plain
To the shed in the back, to the room with no view.
(Unless someone came in and sat next to you.)
The outhouse was set 'neath a tree as its bower
And, hard to detect, amidst many a flower.
Whether freezing and snowing or humid and hot,
It still beat a traipse in the woods just to squat.
Now those woods have reclaimed the old shed as its own.
The air is now fragrant, the path overgrown,
And the flies have all found other places for humming.
The romance that's lost in more up-to date plumbing!
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