The diesel fumes and the whipped-up dust,
The Imbecile clerks and the pies with al dente crust,
The detention centre themed toilet block,
Pinching a vigilant loaf with unreliable locks.
40 degrees while you fill ‘er up,
Janky old handles, Janky old hut,
Cattle on the road and right in the way,
Sacrifice a few just to get on with your day.
To indulge oneself in a treat for the road,
Fried or packaged and off you go,
A delicious samosa that’s sat there all day,
The gut microbiome is made to pay.
A jaunt to the toilet with explosive bowels,
No washing the hands, as there were no towels
The piss-soaked floors and the humming fans,
The plumes of odours from travellers’ glands,
The shameless wanks that couldn’t wait,
The couples therapy of a toilet break,
The outdoor tables birds covered in shit,
Traditions all lost on the next long trip.
Vale Fortescue Roadhouse.
