A Pregnant Lass

A pregnant lass with eyes of glass had never learned to cope; once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope. She fled the curse of worlds perverse by shooting shots of dope, and stalked discreet’ Asylum Street her daily horoscope. The stray was struck by passing truck which was her only hope. Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire: “The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire (born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire) for no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require; though faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar, infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire. Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her - whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire; though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.” Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene. And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16, with child, unwed, her soul stained red, her body so unclean. A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes, in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens; and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens. Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod “In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod, (the twisted grin seemed dark and thin behind the robed façade). “She’ll burn in hell with sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god. Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire, but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir: “The clueless search within the church to find what they desire, but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.” And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.