sentry deny, see the field marshal

the food mob was hungry for weak underbellies. though they responded to sonic flash bursts and eel calls, their movement stratagem was without design.
naturally, this vexed the aging field marshal. in his mellow drama, he turned instead to the plunder crew captured recently near the tracks. they were 12 men battered and calloused from weeks in the tough filth. their senior man who had been elected to speak for the lot, was turning green from disease; nevertheless, he insisted on reporting of the grievances.
the aging field marshal, having binged on greezey bacon swill and dark rye, decided to produce an illustration of this stubborn sick wit as he denied his condition.
this fool will choke on toasted bile, for sure.
the smoke from battery 327 obscured the composition for a few moments, and in that time the aging field marshal drew india ink into his bamboo pen. he then proceeded to fill the tooth of the page before him.
embro like you master, what the head like