Massa Jeff pulled at her dress,
She backed away with some distress,
Not wishing she no back-stair cow,
No garden whore that he could plow;
Not wishing she be birthing babies,
High color gals still borne slavies,
Not wishing she birth white toned sons,
The spawn of Massa having fun;
But he insisted in a corner,
He grabbed her hard, she limped a mourner,
Bent her over his writing desk,
Yanked and tore her new French dress;
And as he thrust and deeply plowed,
Taking what he was allowed,
She cursed the color of her skin,
Raped and forced to live in sin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem