The Quail Pie We Buried (Bivouac)

Lyrics

[Intro]
Pemba said, watch this, twins.
October 7th, 2015, on the only hill of Point Nemo.
No tents, just the sky at 48 degrees south.

[Verse 1]
We gathered the quail that morning, three of them,
plucked clean by Bouba's careful hands.
Flour from Mrs. Patterson's larder, dated 2014,
water from the stream that runs cold at 5 degrees Celsius.
Pemba kneaded the dough, his fingers like roots,
wrapped those birds in a crust thick as a soldier's blanket.

[Chorus]
Bivouac, he called it, the word from 1702,
Swiss guards watching the night near Bern.
We dug the pit at dusk, 6:15 PM,
embers glowing like Napoleon's fires at Borodino, 1812.
Buried the pie under ash and soil,
let the earth cook it slow, no flames to waste.

[Verse 2]
Tin mess kit from Cousin Hornswoggle's trunk,
marked with dents from some forgotten voyage.
We waited, huddled in wool, threadbare at the edges,
air dropping to 8 degrees, stars pinning the dark.
Pemba told of Adrien Bourgogne, the sergeant,
who slept on frozen ground, cloak for a roof,
his memoir from 1898, pages yellow as our firelight.

[Bridge]
The trick, he whispered, is the heat held close,
like a secret in the ground, no wind to steal it.
We unearthed it at 9:42 PM, steam rising,
quail pie golden, juices seeping like dawn dew.
Ate with fingers, no forks, just the warmth.

[Outro]
Temporary camp, Pemba said, but the pie lasted.
Till morning, 5:30 AM, when we broke it,
left the bones for the ants, Formica fusca colony nearby.
Bivouac ends, but the word lingers, like smoke.