Crackle and Hum

Febrile, this heat.

A grass hut, my workplace.

Tied like a cauldron over the charcoals.

Droning flies fill the air:

'Can I help you?'

'Thanks for calling.'

The swat of my arms - the punkawallah's off sick;

By design no doubt:

She'll be slowly licking ice-cream in the park,

With George.

Colonials line the horizon,

Binoculars glinting in the afternoon fug.

One old duffer, 

Solar topee jammed hard-on despite his intrusion,

Hunkers down before me.

His rheumed eyes glare maddened into mine.

'Bark, bark! Bark, BARK, bark, BAAAAAARK!'

He spits;

Adding one, 'Barque?!'

In case the language barrier is a problem.

I pull my halberd off the wall,

And run him through as were he a jackal.

There'll be a form to fill-in,

For Health and Safety, no doubt.

But the act will be considered a model for future training, 

And I'll get off lightly.

The flies resume their buzzing.

Most efficient, these diptera.