Forty acres and a mule is Rueben’s stake,
in sandy-soiled pine-country
by a stream fed lake;
There he plants cotton, corn and ‘taters,
a patch of melons, beans and ‘maters;
Centuries of struggle landed him here
through rough sea-voyages fraught with fear
to endless lost days of pain and tears
brought at the hand of cruel overseers;
Freedom now is the clarion call,
a trumpet resounding
down Congress’ hall;
A chance to prosper in the un-chosen land
and to raise a family by his own sure hand;
With joy and goodness he buries the hate
unloading his burden and buoying his fate
beyond sheltering pines and the wooden gate
of a cozy house he’s built of late;
Children freed from that forbidding plight,
help with chores
and play with delight;
while Mother loosed from unspoken shame,
nourishes them there like warm summer rain;
Plow and plant, then nurture, then reap
skills developed when labor was cheap
are now built-up in freedom grown sweet,
as the tide of change begins its neap;
Wily carpetbaggers with big cash to spend,
use guile and trickery
the rules to bend
twisting men’s minds toward vile obstruction
while ****** the Law of Reconstruction;
Rueben prospers in this miraculous scheme
there in the forest by the fresh water stream
revering each day a freedman’s dream,
then wakes one night to a low, anguished scream;
The scene is horrific outside the front door,
his mind gropes madly
for a safe sandy-shore;
so he shuttles his family to the woods out back
while listening to the sounds of an awful attack;
Horse-mounted specters with torches ablaze
set fire to the barn and trample the maize
then gallop a-whopping as his old dog bays
at a burning cross where the dead mule lays;
They hide in the pines through a dreadful night
allaying kid’s fears
and the old dog’s fright;
Then return to the farm under a red morning sky,
to find the promise a smoldering burnt lie;
Jesus suffered again on that cross, it’s plain,
as sure as if Pilate had taken rein
leading hate-filled men on a satanic campaign
‘neath fear’s hood and white sheets of shame;
Madmen imagine their cause to be just,
leaving innocents moldering,
mangled in the dust;
With swords blood rusted and Bibles in belts,
they shout fiery sermons, as small worlds melt;
A hundred years flash by in slow fury,
history being written with no trial or jury,
It’s the same baleful, sorry old story,
thems doin' the tellin' gets all the glory;
But history sometimes reshuffles the deck,
And deals a new hand
to ruffle the stiff-necks
of modern raiders who race to the fore
to stanch the tide of progress once more;
Blind to their trail of ****** mistakes
and ignoring slimy vipers let loose on the take,
They go scape-goating—thrashing for snakes—
in sandy-soiled pine country, by stream fed lakes.
