Butter-coloured skin hung in bunches over the Colonel's patellas;
he spat into the sand and hiked up his britches.
'Now, as sure as god made little apples,' he flipped through the folds
like a Rolodex, 'you'll find one of the buggers feeding.
They like the damp, d'you see? Ha!' - a puckered, lucent grub;
he craned it loose, and dropped it in the merchant's
waiting palm. 'There you are,' he rapped his swagger stig
against the cast iron rim of a rain barrel, satisfied,
'money for jam.'
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