My Black Hands

My black hands, worn down to the bone,

The skin rough around the edges, but my heart not shown.

Been dragin' this rope to the ends of this land,

But still not a white sould to lend his hand.

My wrists and ankles shackled tight,

With my hopes still high to have a free night.

Those wooden ships with that horrible smell,

Sometimes I'd rather go straight to hell.

My black hands still have life,

As I carry my sould high into the night.