Underneath the bough of an old oak,
The ***** is being flogged as he kneeled.
A bright ray of sun pierces my cornea,
As I peer upon this white field,
I can see his tears, glistening in the light.
I can see his fear, in the darkest night.
I can see him leer, into the white.

For he has done no wrong,
No wrong at all.
But the obvious crime of being black.
A tangled and ****** mess, his back.
The ominous call, echoes the whiteness into the mans eyes.

Fearsome ideas tug my innards, pulling me to submission.
But calls from old Abe,
Talks of long forgone freedom,
Keep me with it.

I feel the archaic man, turn his muddy grin,
Upon me.