Beauty Benedicta

The Beauty Benedicta cleaved gently on her way
Her coddled precious cargo safe within
Round warming stove they huddled
Their nostrils woodsmoke filled
And thoughts of their escape a silent din
They rubbed their wretched rags for warmth
Gainst skin and fleshless bone
And prayed their silent prayers of thanks
That they’d been left alone
The scenes of Dante’s hell back there
Kaleidoscoped their souls
The workhouse toil no picnic
Freezing beds and empty bowls
Then Heaven rained a flaming spark
To set ablaze their jail
And out they snuck like fleeing rats
Found refuge under sail
The Beauty Benedicta
Bound south for who knows where
A saviour to her cargo
God speed to take them there

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