Stepping high through the cotton fields
so pregnant for picking the ***** midwives
delivers cotton to white men calling yields
counting the gold, nobody counts black lives,
sush, keep quiet, the master needs his slave
she is perfect his Sally so light so golden
she bears his tainted fruit quiet and brave,
history digs up graves and DNA TJ's beholden.
If I wrote this then well done, Poet. If not then well done, Poet.