Another fart rattles the window
heralding the start of a dawn glow.
Bowels awakening after the night,
it's time to set out and have a shite.
At 16000 feet
it's a test,
as the light picks out
Mount Everest
to stumble the few yards up the road,
find the cold squatter, and drop my load.

Split by knee-high walls without a door
are two long slots in the concrete floor.
A wrinkled old man squats in the first
straining and grunting, fit to burst.
Hunkering down
I take a quick peek,
as the icy chill
stings my butt cheeks,
to see a plank sloping to the ground
where wild dogs and a pig mill around.

The freezing wind attacks my ringpiece
causing the rapid and smooth realease
of a mighty turd, which, tumbling fast,
skips right down the plank to reach at last
the squealing pig
and scabrous dogs,
who fight for and eat
my steaming logs,
while the old man's still grunting -- no luck;
but grins as if to say, "What the fuck?"