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A Rumble in the Jungle
A Rumble in the Jungle
A long long time ago, well before I met your mum,
I was sent on a secret mission to the sweltering African sun,
by our Government with orders “there’s a threat that we’ve seen,
there’s a danger to Britain who’s green, long and mean”.
“Our Queen was set-upon during a Royal safari,
when a monster bit her bottom and ripped her best sari.”
“Such a crime should be punishable by death don’t you say?
The guards shot their guns but the fiend got away”.
Witnesses claimed “he’s well over forty-foot long,
scales all over, sharp teeth, and horrible pong,
of rotten fish mixed up with dirty old mud,
“we’ve named him Crok-Nigel, and we’d kill him if we could”.
I was young and naive so I packed up my tent,
my guitar, my backpack, and a book that was lent-
by a friend with a title “Making fire from wet sticks”,
and food rations of beans and my favourite Wheetabix.
I was dropped into base camp from a helicopter, down a rope
to a clearing in the trees on my own but I hoped,
that I’d make it a home with a view by the lake,
where Crok- Nigel wouldn’t see me for my own safety’s sake.
I settled into the area, but it was hard on my own.
Week’s passed and I missed TV and my phone.
Nothing really happened, just me there by myself,
keeping up regular meals and ensuring good health.
Then one day I used the book, lit a fire, cooked some beans,
when a sound came from the undergrowth of our predator fiend,
seeking a nice British dinner, a tasty foreign dish,
that was clearly more appealing than the standard local fish.
I remembered my mission “He’s a scary looking creature,
with menace and fright his most noticeable feature”.
“Your task, should you accept it, is to take this thing out.
There’s a medal in it for you to remove this green lout”.
When I set eyes upon him, he was my size times twenty.
Several scars on his nose, he’d seen fisticuffs a plenty.
A humongous thing; his thigh bigger that my chest,
And his mouth all dribbley, craving a taste- test.
So I didn’t run off, in zigzags from side-to-side,
like they’d taught me in my training, as there was nowhere to hide.
But confident and brave, I stood tall for a fight,
as Croc-Nigel swaggered closer from left then to right.
It was clear he could cover ground in double-quick time,
he’d whip around corners like David Beckham in his prime.
I’d dart around like lightening, but he followed my scent,
through the fire, up a tree, and he flattened my green tent.
Then we circled each other, staring straight face to face,
I was thinking just run and escape with great haste.
How far would I get before Croc-Nigel caught me up?
to devoured me-in-one if I had any such luck.
With pan now in hand; I then jumped onto his back,
where I landed with aplomb to then launch my attack.
I smashed the pan to his snout, but my whole body shook
hurting me more than him. Then he shot me a look…
which said “this is so easy, I’ll soon wear you down,
this won’t be much trouble… I’m the boss in this town”.
But with this something happened; I stopped feeling scared,
his confidence made me angry, and not to be deterred.
I gained strength in my battle with this ghastly beast,
and in an attempt to avoid his razor sharp teeth,
I slipped off my bootlace that had previously been tied,
and wrapped up his mouth, over the top and the side.
So yes, I fought dirty, like he’d never before seen.
I remembered the safari and what he’d done to my Queen.
So likewise I bit him, in a revenge type attack,
somewhere right between his bum and back.
Then I spat the chunk out, as it was putrid to taste,
and while I stopped myself being all-sick down my face.
His tail swung from my blind side, and it swatted me like a fly,
and I crashed into the ground, after an age in the sky.
When my eyes opened I was fuzzy, and I’d seen better days,
out for the count and no match for his crocodile-like ways.
I’d given up all hope when I heard a noise being employed,
of a chomping and a slurping of food being enjoyed.
I gathered strength, stood up, and saw the bean-pan was still there,
and Croc- Nigel, now untied, sampling this culinary fare.
He ate upright with manners, it seemed this protein rich food,
made him ecstatically happy, and it lightened his mood.
He shot me another look saying “you’ve mistaken my man,
I’ve never been interested in your human meat ham.
The only thing that I hunt is your tomatoey baked beans,
they taste so delicious that they’re fit for a Queen’.
Like a jigsaw the whole story then pieced itself together,
Croc-Nigel wasn’t a killer, he was a pretty decent fella.
We’d assumed he was just evil and on the wrong team,
when all the guy ever wanted was this famous cuisine.
So every meal from thereafter, I‘d set out a plate,
and like clockwork he’d arrive for a nice dinner date.
I’d cook up some beans, and we’d see the night through,
I’d play him songs on my guitar, and he’d hum to a few.
When the helicopter arrived to get me, a week or so after,
we’d become good friends and shared moments of laughter,
I was sad to leave him, but pleased to come back to you,
and on the flight back I formed a plan of what I needed to do.
When home I met the Army, told them they’d got it all wrong,
Croc Nigel wasn’t a killer, no Godzilla or King Kong.
It was all about the beans, and he was really quite polite,
just make sure he’s well stocked, then there’s no need for a fight.
So every year now they send a mission to that same jungle,
Where an Army plane delivers a Croc Nigel addressed bundle.
Containing an annual supply of the Queen’s favourite beans,
for our friend in the jungle, who’s now not so mean.
