She lugs a heavy bellied-waddle.
She draws a heavy-chested breath.
The heart of man quivers,
hoping
that she delivers
the death of death.

The radicals sigh at this unplanned birth.
There are too many souls on the census
to burden God's Providence,
and more importantly
Mother Earth.

While they debate the cause of sisterhood,
she begins to bawl.
They plot to quell the baby
and stall
the drama that will put
an end to the Fall.

They stare at her in her agony
and, in communion, hum
that eternal hymn of the beast
"We Shall Overcome".

They think the world will be none the worse
for snubbing the one who'll lift the curse;
Their spirits too proud and too perverse
to worship Christ the Fetus,
Lord of the Universe.