Stall Call

A limrick-ish poem about calling a number on a bathroom stall (writer's cramp)

Prompt: Write about an unusual phone call.


Doing nothing much at all,
Sylvester sat in a stall.
Brooding and bummed,
bare-bummed, he hummed,
reading a number to call.

For A Good Time Call Tracy
SHE'S LEATHERY AND LACEY!
"a demon in bed"
was cicled in red,
the next line read quite racy.

The ink was dulled and faded;
still he mulled and debated.
"It's likely a prank
penned by some crank
-- her goodness over-rated."

And, yet, he fished for a dime,
his fantasy too sublime.
He paid and waited;
his breath was baited,
He couldn't hang up in time.

Her voice he'd already heard.
This is completely absurd!
"Please be complient --
I'm out with a client.
No names; just a number, preferred."

Dear me! No Way! Oh, Brother!
Cursing this, that and the other . . .
The "beep" then sounded.
He was astounded.
In the phone, he said, "Hi . . . Mother."