The Blood of Slaves

A slave was a thing
when cotton was king
and a thing was an item for using
And though he might sing
he just existed to bring
his strength to his master’s will choosing

Nothing his own
though he worked to the bone
and labored in fields for his Master

in the blare of the sun
his work never done
cries the whip, ever cries “now work faster.”
What had he done
to be such a one
and see day to day his life worsen?
Was it his skin
and was that a sin
that made him a thing not a person?

And what of the heart
that defended its part
in this moral corruption and madness

He himself most a slave
from the cradle to grave
then picking in hell bitter sadness
No sinner gains
in causing men pains
while building a house or a nation

for when all is done
each stands before One
and sent to paternal relation- id







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