Before they were called policemen,
they were called rollers
Paid slave catchers ... tin badge investment protectors
Oh, how blue was the black soul
when they heard the roller wagon coming
The mean horses thundering
at a fierce pace,
ready to trample on their short-lived freedom
Nowhere to run ... no escape
Roll them up back in chains,
return the caught soul
to their cursed destiny
Put the dark rabbits in leg irons —
yes, it was always considered good luck
when you cut off one of their feet
Teach the other glade runners to stay in place;
give a gruesome maim,
and they’ll learn to know their proper place —
Plantation property don’t get to run free
Rollers always been leaning on us black souls,
pressing our thumbs on an inkpad
with a heavy trigger hand
Yes sir ...
whatever you say, officer
Me no resist, me comply, Mr. Policeman ...
arresting reply is smoking silence
Roll that body away in the morgue wagon
Categories:
inkpad, racism, slavery, truth, violence,
Form: Narrative