They worked and worked under the brutal, scorching sun,
The children had no time for exploration or fun,
Stuck on a huge, white-fielded farm,
Never safe from Master's harm.
Cotton plumes drifting lazily through the breeze,
Plummeting to the earth in a gentle wheeze,
They picked and picked, white in black hands,
The whip cracks down in bloody strands.
For the greedy, they picked and picked,
While the Overseer, his whip flicked and flicked,
A woman with a head that'd been bumped bad,
She saved many, boy was she mad.
That woman, she had a network of hope,
The lights in the window, reasons to hold on and cope,
That tall president, he caught on fast,
But the South, freedom came to them, sadly, last.
They didn't understand that cotton wasn't worth it,
Worth the turmoil, the pain, the murderous fits,
Because Masters weren't made to control human beings,
Slaves shouldn't be given a reason for fleeing.
Because no matter how much green that white stuff made,
It wasn't worth the whippings, the relentless death raids,
Cotton's just a word now in these times,
But back then, it was a way to die.
Luna Elvenfleur xx
