Mr Mascellani's Musings

High noon,
buzzards circle and swoop.
The sun calls out mad dogs.
A harmonica weeps out a tune.

Tears travel down reddened faces.
Sweat gushes down brows.
Forks pass between swollen lips
into mouths that look
as if they were blistered in the depths of hell.

No man
wants to be the man
who's the first stop eating
at the annual chicken curry-eating competition.