And lo, our heroes did piss their pants mightily,
And ran like bat-shit lambs through jungle underbrush from brutish, native savages.
Made sense at the time,
this full-tilt retreat, this careening over ivy,
skidding down slopes of wild, wide-leaf ferns,
and elephant-eared plants soaked in dark morning showers under
thundering, nightmarish gloom broken by spastic flashes of blinding
lightning. Illuminated jungle sped by as
the misfit mercenaries fled, bolted, spilled out, cartwheeled, barreled,
scampered and trippingly hastened their ways from
the beaches covered in local cannibals,
lofting feather-collared spears, dire machetes, sputtering torches and
axes made from splintered shells and shark teeth.
