I'm not, I'm not, I'm not a clown

 

Prelude

Like you, I’m appalled beyond words at stories of child neglect, abuse and particularly trafficking. How can any man or woman risk their very soul by gratifying their physical lusts and greed at the expense of a child?? What justification could there ever be?

               I decided to try expressing my disgust in a poem; the rhyme and metre would imitate children’s rope-skipping chants. (Apples, peaches, pears, and plums/Tell me when your birthday comes.) To make its reading most effective, I envision ten-year-olds, a girl and a boy, twirling a rope and reciting in rhythm while another ten-rear-old girl in a red dress skips. A voice would be added at each verse making a chorus of protest. A film maybe?

               I would value your reaction, criticism, advice. It’s a first draft.

 

I’M NOT, I’M NOT, I’M NOT A CLOWN^©

 

“go t’ y’r room!” her papa said

“what’s gotten inta y’r woolly head”

but she sneaked out through the back instead

over the fence toward town she sped.

 

what urged eliza toward the town

was just the latest dressing-down

‘mongst many, this one was the crown:

“you look just like a stupid clown!”

 

like any girl who turns thirteen

frets over how she will be seen

she’d rouged her cheeks like norma jeane

seen once upon the silver screen.

 

‘twas nearly dark when she got to town

bewildered, lost she wandered ‘round

up empty streets, then later, down,

“i’m not. i’m not. i’m not a clown!”

 

miss mooney saw her wander by

dollar signs twinkled in her eye

“come in, come in,” was her honeyed cry—

eliza smelled roast and apple pie.

 

she took herself to the open door

a house, like none she’d seen before

with carpets red and oaken floor

and on the table, petit-fours.

 

miss mooney fed her fruits and sweets

and “what are your doing out on streets?

by morning there’ll be icy sheets,

you’d catch a cold, and freeze your feet.”

 

she bathed eliza, combed her hair

and gave her silken underwear

rouged her cheeks with utmost care

… and sold her to a man upstairs

 

who kept her under lock and key

lest one day she might try to flee

“this doll will bring a hefty fee;

i’ll be flashing gold for all to see.”

 

eliza knew where she was bound

she cried, then struck a match she’d found.

miss mooney heard the crackling sound

smoke billowed down in fiery cloud.

 

like tinder box, the house blazed down

its fury seen beyond the town

miss Mooney’s was a place renowned

her fortune made, her loss profound,

 

and sev’ral honoured men who reigned

whose place on top was preordained

who took the icing off the cake

exploited folk like eden’s snake,

 

of course, they uttered not a word

to do so would have been absurd

their home, positions were at stake

not guilt, but fear, set them a’quake.

 

among the folk who gathered round

her father, callous as before

spat  pure derision on the ground

 “i alles knew she’d be a whore.”

 

“a suicide” the judge decreed

“for further talk there is no need.”

but every night he’d dream a dream

and wake up with a rending scream,

 

“but who offends a little one

who trusts in me as her defense

shall feel the wrath of god’s own son

and long for judgment’s recompense

 

with millstone tied to weigh him down

tossed in the sea to choke and drown.”

 

Postlude

A choice is given every man

to nurture children, god’s command.

But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea. (Matthew 18:6, KJV)