NaPM April 04 2016

[Achebe]

At the turbid hour (aka Ned Kelly's last dinner)

At the turbid hour
of the "entre chien et loup" 
a bushranger peels potatoes
for potato soup.
Unbeknownst to him, a berry
dropped from Proserpine's dower
waits on his stilleto's
julienning power.
The campsite songs ring merry
with tales of rape and pillage
and paens duly sung to
the whore with strongest sillage.
But each minute, the nightshade
gets closer to being chopped up
and served with feral rabbit
the fecund bush hath coughed up.
In the turbid hour ( dangnabbit!
the entre-hoochee-hoop?)
it's a bad idea generally
to make potato soup.