Opressed souls, march forward,
ther' be no thick Cross to shoulder
that your shoulders cannot carry
to th' waterside, for comfort.
For if ther' were, my tired friend
yo'r shoulders would be thorned -
as th' cotton plants 'uv 'sippi,
th' kind that warm cold faces -
in th'south-most dross of Dixie
wher' pale-white ghosts at night
still be found in dark black places
awaiting th' Devil's hour -
in hues of red, orange...black
like amber, umber...char.
An', thes' ghosts who've lost their Soul's
plant Crosses in th' night
on th' turf 'uv they 'uv difference
then they 'uv bred disgrace
whos' Crosses wreak 'uv blasphemy,
torched, by hands 'uv cowar.
These yellow moonlight demons,
in white as th' bales 'uv cotton
they proudly sell at sunrise,
still smiling from th' night-past;
An', sh'uld y'u brush real close, you'll catch-
th' afterscent 'uv stale burnt wood.
Now, smartly clad in suits,
thes' business men well guised;
'cuz th' sun is up an' eye's can see,
an' that ain't 'gud fer' biz'nezz!
Bales of thick, rich cotton,
producing shirts, sheets an' hoods;
Organdy deserves no touch
of spite and hate to stain its tag.
Still, ease yo'r Minds an' Hearts all thos'
who find themselves still shouldering
this blight of Ignorance.
'Cuz, Judgement an' its Justice
shall pass its consequences
'pon this sad imbrue.
For, HE knows thos' parts of 'Sippi too -
that Kan still be so Kaustically Kold at night!
___________ F j R ___________