So the sun sets in the sky.

Sweat drips from the day's cry.

I've been here for, I don't know how long.

Master just looks-he don't cry.

Gold in his pocket, looks up to the sky.

Master don't use the switch very much.

Just makes all the more fuss.

'Long as we pick the cotton and hay.

Can't cry-and by the way.

Children sold at auction last week.

Yet, others arrived just last week.

Not my place to count feet.

Work all day, just for my keep.

Women cry sometimes at the night.

I wait, thinking about flight.

Yet, I stay from the hidden fear.

Property I am to others' ears.