by T.L. Coston
Axles squeak and wheels rumble
Axles squeak and wheels rumble
As multitudes shuffle and mumble
Heading to ole Winston town
On down the old plank road.
It’s an affair for families to beware
For a wretch is about to be scourged.
That before these courthouse steps
Justice projects, shadowing the end of the old plank road.
‘Tis a carnival of the pious
Where the merry and innocent riot.
A Sabbath of penitence - Nay, probity
As the righteous inflict veracity; unto sinners - goad.
“Bring out the Stranger!” the crowd brayed,
“The sun is at its zenith. No more delay!”
For this community of Friends shall make amends.
Ah, but only God should punish this poor, old soul.
The courthouse doors opened with a thrust
A disheveled, old woman did Justice lug.
The crowd fell silent. Their mouths agape.
This aged spinster will not survive the knout!
The bewildered, old woman looked around - aghast.
Her eyes widened when doom cast
A monument that ails the wicked and diseased.
She then cried a piteous scream.
Behold the Whipping Post!
The old woman collapsed on the courthouse steps.
But Justice held tight with ungentle caress.
“Mercy! Mercy!” She spittled upon a dirty, tattered dress;
But pity isn’t mete at the Whipping Post
Chains rattled iron rings, hoisting this repentant upon her toes.
The back of her dress ripped open; flesh exposed
From out of the crowd came her torment.
A monstrous silhouette shadowed the Whipping Post.
With a crack came a horrific cry.
The crowd echoed her woe as flesh tore from rawhide.
Blood trickled down a striped, flayed back
Each lash begat a moan; each shook the Whipping Post.
“Enough! Enough!” The crowd cried
As the old woman collapsed and died
What have we done? What did we do?
Bewildered, each took succor in justice not denied.
Across the street from courthouse way
The old woman moulders in a stranger’s grave
No stone or plaque records her life
No infamy to blemish ole Winston town.
On the anniversary of the old woman’s death
Friends gather at the courthouse steps.
A faint wail can’t be denied
When the sun silhouettes a darkened sky
And the iron rings rattle the old Whipping Post.
