The Whipping Post

The Whipping Post
by Joe Shaboo

(Naugatuck Valley Community College: 1996)

There is a man up on the hill, some say he is a ghost.
A crucifix hangs on his door, this is the whipping post.
The dead who dare go dashing there with behinds in their hands.
They come from under rocks, they say, from every single land.
They come by horse, dead or alive, to pray then all are whipped
And sent inside to meet the man who listens to their scripts.
His name is Samda Nostradam. His eyes are crystal balls.
Some say he is a ghost, you know. His eyes can see it all.
So off I ran to meet the man. A line was fifty deep.
Some people waited fifty years, how purgatory keeps.
Old rats and bones were strewn around the people by the door.
A skeleton knelt down next to me and begged my life for more.
And I said, "Though penance is not pennywise, at times it can make sense.
But bones cannot redeem themselves when life is what they've spent."
The skeleton yelled back at me, "How dare you knock aloud.
Oh, Life, you are who I support like air supports the clouds!"
And with these words, he brandished knives within each bony grip
And swung across my jugular. My blood was on those tips.
So off I ran, while clutching throat, afraid I'd turn to ghost...
My life was flogged but did not fall nearby that whipping post.