At sunrise
Into the broad fields they go–
Cropper, tenant, day laborer
Black and white–
Leaving behind
Shacks of logs and planks.
Arching their crooked backs
Slowly, like long mistreated cats,
They throttle the living cotton,
Hustle it, dead and grayish white,
Into the gaping sacks
Portable tombs
For the soft body
Of the South’s Greatest Industry–
While, nearby
Overseers stand
Throttling the living souls
Of the broken workers
Choking their spirit
Until
Worn out and useless
They are crammed into
The waiting earth–
Another industry
Of the Cotton South.
Into the broad fields they go–
Cropper, tenant, day laborer
Black and white–
Leaving behind
Shacks of logs and planks.
Arching their crooked backs
Slowly, like long mistreated cats,
They throttle the living cotton,
Hustle it, dead and grayish white,
Into the gaping sacks
Portable tombs
For the soft body
Of the South’s Greatest Industry–
While, nearby
Overseers stand
Throttling the living souls
Of the broken workers
Choking their spirit
Until
Worn out and useless
They are crammed into
The waiting earth–
Another industry
Of the Cotton South.
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