Toiling for centuries our ancestors must not be forgotten
Their story was purgatory picking sugar cane and cotton
Master thereafter tended to his flock
Hours in fields heavy handed like livestock
Whips sting and sweat streams agony under burlap
When scabs on backs cracked, bloody cloths were quickly rewrapped
‘Water Boss?’ cautiously requested seconds away from heat stroke
White man on a horse drinking from a canteen simply replied ‘Nope.’