Smoke from my pipe
Cracked like a leather bullwhip
Broadcast from my upper lip
Southern man will be my mantle
And close quarter’s cotton, a stand still

My black skin helps reject the sun

Smoke from my cigar
Was liberated like a quiet /-pluck-\of a plant
That I choose when to release
Sothern man will soon dismantle
And still I stand in the master’s handle