Cotton
Cotton sleeps unsoundly,
Knowing many hands are there to pick it--
Many scarred hands that roam
The fluffy fields at the crack of dawn.
Cotton gets anxious
When sunlight wakes the morn.
Cotton smells the coffee brewing
And fidgets fretfully
At the thought of brown
Blood stained hands.
Cotton meets its death
In sacks slung around
Poor men’s shoulders.
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