Waking up to the sound of whips
Creating a rhythm on
The backs of the folks moved in ships
Under the scorching sun
Sweat running down their waist and hips
As they work on the field of corn
To retire at the dawn of six
And up at the fist sight of morn'

Their backs acquainted to the sun
And their stomachs to crusty bread
They were accustomed to the scorn
As they lay low their head.

Though shackles broken, chains of old
Racism's shadow cast a tale to be told
Though shackles broken yet we still bleed
The chains of slavery on us still feed.
    
CursedPen.