When the snow is on the outhouse,
And the frost is on the seat;
It’s then that nature’s duty calls
And you move with hurried feet!
You don’t have time to shovel,
So you waller through the snow;
And you don’t need a weatherman
To know it’s four below!
You make a quick deposit
And tear a page or two
Of last year’s mail house catalog –
Or even corn cobs will do!
Then to the house and fireside
You hurry without fail…
With frozen stuff hanging from your nose
And frostbite on your tail!