Caspar spits out a mouthful of casserole
to discover a gravy-soaked finger
twitching on his paper plate.
It beckons invitingly.
'Oh no you don't, sonny Jim.'
He folds the plate around it
like a macabre taco and marches
back to the organiser of the raffle.
'What the deuce do you call this?'
says Caspar, his whiskers thick with sauce.
The organiser, a rumpled, sallow gent
with a face like a limp windsock regards the prize.
'Finger.'
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