When once upon a crime of yore;
a maid with child knocked on a door.
When beckoned in, where met her fate;
the church played hush as did the state.
A crime most foul yet was proposed:
‘Her just deserts.’ Went unopposed.
With haste to put her in the ground,
in dead of night, in darkness gowned.
No wooden cross or graveyard stone;
a scene of such a sordid tone.
No one to bless her on her way,
just get the bitch beneath the clay.
The pastor known to all and one
and known too well what he had done.
None dared the truth lest got what due,
kept quiet as cowards oft’ times do.
A temptress, she, was their excuse;
a Jezabel, a dark chanteuse.
Seduced the pastor drunk on wine;
of Satan’s guile and by design.
Where once a grave left weeds to dwell,
perhaps a sniffing dog might tell.
Of passers-by, how could they know,
a crime most foul lay hid below
Who cared, who sought to clear her name
of those who knew who was to blame?
To rot unknown, unclean, defiled
so, too, the pastor’s unborn child.