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The Negro (Free verse) by Everyone
He toils;
Gnarled hands grope the tilth,
Baked-black hide caked in filth:
He's soiled.
He bolts;
O'er the fence, thro' Master's grounds,
Straight into the waiting hounds:
He halts.
He wails;
Bulging lips swell with rage,
Thrashing limbs to break his cage:
He fails.
He stoops;
White palms clenched about the bars,
As Master's whip inflicts new scars:
He droops.
He toils;
Gnarled hands grope the tilth,
Baked-black hide caked in filth:
He's soiled.
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