The Bisto-Kid.

It's dark and damp in Georgia, near    
this Cahulawassee river,    
a jungle like Borneo, it's clear  
as I break another nail, and shiver.    
On the Appalachian trail    
a visit to the primitive past,    
" I must be outta my tree," I wail    
but mostly I need food and fast.    
    
" Dinner's ready " a ghostly moan              
dies away in the falling night,              
a rattle of pans make me groan              
coz I ain't dined since early light.              
The smell of smoke awakes my plight              
as does the aroma of roast pork,             
I've already pulled my belt in tight              
as my hike starts to feel, like work.              
              
No campfire flame, as yet, is shown              
no track pointing to campsite,              
just torturing smells, these are blown              
up my nose becoming my sight.              
And my tracking skills track it right              
Ah! a Bisto-Kid... in the gloomy murk              
but still slavering for a bite              
but no welcoming campfire spark.              
               
But my nose leads me to a hut,              
a stone stove, a G.I dixie,             
my belly thinks my throat's been cut              
but the smell of long-cooked-piggy,              
turns my hands to tearing claws              
all is silent, not a sound,            
but slurping lips, my chomp of jaws           
filling belly, now heaven bound.              
             
I poke the fire up to a blaze              
and see the roasted leg is, kinda small,             
no crackling but hell I'm ready to praise              
the cook an' clean an' wash an' all.              
In the gloom I kick a boot              
and my delight is changed to fright,              
coz horror of horrors in it, a foot              
as I bang outta there into the night,            
I knock a table, something rolls to the floor,                
a chopped up head with accusing eyes              
watched me chase my vomit, out the door...