Windy couldn’t bear to watch.
Slave traders could be so cruel.
Especially the Pirate kind,
Who treated people like tools.
So she decided quickly,
To go tell Papa Bog.
She thought he might be back at home.
So she ran. She didn’t jog.
Papa Bog adopted many kids,
Herself and most of her siblings.
She hoped he’d adopt the handsome one,
Whose cross in her ears were ringing.
But he generally didn’t adopt one
At that late an age.
She had been a baby
When her life turned that page.
Her home wasn’t that far away
From the East end of the fair.
The leaves crunched beneath her loudly.
As the wind blew through her hair.
But as her family’s treehouse
Came over the hill into sight
Windy’s blood ran cold in her veins,
As panic gripped her tight.
Pirates with the same tattoos
That the earlier pirates had,
Were pouring something around her home-tree.
That could be nothing but bad.
Windy’s scream pierced the air,
As she bolted toward their sheds.
Pirate: “Stop you little Tattle-tale!
Stop our else you’re dead!”