Ode to a Gas Station Toilet

I have penned (well, actually typed) a poem in honor of the gas station toilet. I'm not usually given to prose, but I felt moved, much like my colon after mushrooms. Here 'tis:

  

Ode to a Gas Station Toilet

O you tired porcelain,
spattered and stained,

your foundation, slightly askew,

like so much of the ass which has

graced your weary mantle.

There you sit,

a worn, dirty brown brush,

it's frayed bristles

adorned with filth and dust

and a cracked plunger,

it's rubber, dry and caking,

it's handle split

your only companions.

Yet your lonely vigil you keep
"Come," you say. "Sit thine throne, mighty one.
Loose thy weary burden."
Your words are but a cruel jape
your great maw beholds what remains
of the last "mighty one"
who sat your unholy dais.

O, gas station toilet,

how long will you endure?

How long before your casings give way,

before you flee the curses
and excrement

heaved upon you?

For me, I shall never know.
I have already left.

For the woods.