There was silence when I’d finished.
Imagine, the cave full of smoke
from Boglog Junior’s last attempt
to invent what he had termed ‘fire’.
His blackened bones lay strewn about
among the steaming turds and dust
mixed with titbits of mammoth fat,
which smelt exceptionally good.
Old Chief Boglog stared into space.
Eyes followed his hand as it tapped
his man-club (an ominous sound).
At last he grunted: “I get it!”
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