Trial of the Lilithite - 1/7

 We paid our scrips, and boarded ships
To America's eastern shore,
Six hundred head, by Good Book led,
Though sickness took twelve more.

Our holy man, he kept our clan
In service to the Lord,
Our souls were clean, except (unseen)
The stowaway on board.

A Gypsy girl, her hair a-curl,
Hid in the cargo hold,
Weeks deprived, yet she survived
The rain, and waves, and cold.

A mere sixteen she must have been,
Though lovely was her form;
Eventually, she came to me
P'raps frightened by the storm.

In foreign tongues, with coughing lungs
She begged us for our help,
But Reverend Tucker said "No succor,
For a thieving Gypsy whelp!"

He shut the door, and took the floor,
Said, "This girl's not our kin,
And if the crew should see her too,
Their souls will turn to sin.

I must take this little rake,
Confine her in my room,
And civilize (or exorcise),
Lest she call forth our doom."

I said, "Yae, wild, but still a child,
Lost, and steeped in fear.
What harm would pass, to let the lass
Earn her passage here?"

"Thou art wise, but I see your eyes,
Poring o'er her curves;
I trust in you, but not the crew;
They don't need rattled nerves."

I did relent, and out they went;
I knew she'd be protected,
But what transpired once they retired,
Not even he expected.

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