Cotton

The oppressed negro sings softly of his blues

as he picks white clouds erupting from green stalks

Rooted beneath his shoes

"Don't worry my son. We will leave this plantation"

A fight he never won

It left to the north

To mills

where spindles moved back and forth

Foreman made his rounds 

as workers sweat and return to their shanty towns

It's a different kind of slavery

It left again made it's final stop

A child puts on their new top

They're wearing all the pain

Will we ever be the same?

NO

Because we need the cash crop called cotton