Poop bucket cheers

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[Intro — banjo riff with a plunger thump on beat]
Somebody go jiggle the handle…
'Cause this story’s about to back up.
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[Verse 1]
Burnin' Man, midweek heat,
gotta take a dump, can’t feel my feet.
Toilets are full, the line’s a mile,
I’m walkin’ with my bucket, not a trace of style.
Chemical blue, sloshin’ around,
tryin’ not to gag at that splashy sound.
Holdin’ the handle like a cursed prize,
searchin’ porta-potties with bloodshot eyes.
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[Verse 2]
Third stall in, every door’s locked,
startin’ to think this bucket’s gonna talk.
Look up the row — what do I see?
Another poor bastard mirrorin’ me.
He’s got his bucket, I got mine,
we’re synced like porta-potty Gemini.
We meet in the middle, both lookin’ dead,
I raise my bucket and awkwardly said—
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[Chorus — shout it with pride]
Cheers?!
He blinked, looked lost in fear —
then smiled and mumbled back, Cheers?!
No words left, just poop in a bowl,
a silent salute from soul to soul.
No eye contact, just carried on,
bucket to bucket, brotherhood strong.
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[Verse 3]
Last stall swings open like a Vegas slot,
I dive in like it's the last good spot.
Blue wave crashes, my work gets dumped,
pray the fumes don’t make me slump.
But I’m thinkin’ now, as I wipe and pray,
"Oh hell, we’re both headed back this way."
Do I pass him again and clink those tins?
Or let him win and dodge my sins?
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[Verse 4]
So I step out bold, back to the track,
hopin' for that second bucket smack.
Two stalls down, I glance with fear—
his door opens up...
...and he disappears.
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[Outro — slow it down, soft strum, crowd half laughing, half cheering]
He ran.
Around the back.
He didn’t wanna cheers the empty sack.
Guess he wasn’t ready for round two beers…
But I’ll never forget…
Poop bucket cheers.
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Rustic Bluegrass with Banjo, Fiddle, and Foot-Tapping Rhythm