The day was over, finally the slaves could speak
Their clothes of tobacco and dirt they did reek
They talked of how every day they were sent, in chains
To work in for their master out in the plains.
Then in the dark of their house they looked to prayer
For that was their refuge, the only thing they had out there
They prayed that they, the slaves
Would not soon be sent to their graves.
The next day one of the children fell
He had been beaten harshly and fell with a yell
What hit the ground first was his head
And from then on he was dead.
Every day with dread
The slaves would lift their heads
They would always pray
That the next person would not be they.
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