Slave

Two Black men from the years 1813 & 2013 respectively talk about life.

The Year 1813

Stifling rays of sun contain within the scorching heat,
I work amidst the fields without no shoes I scorch my feet,
it's only 10am and I've been going hard since 5,
the aches remain from where my back is scarred but I'll survive.

I am my master's n****r, born and raised to be a slave,
to get this cotton razed until I lay down in my grave,
my mama and my daddy; both sold off when I was 8,
to lay these eyes on them again, the chance ain't often great.

These are the cards that I've been dealt but no complaints from me,
my soul's in pain because my body's aching to be free,
I think about escaping this but nah it just ain't me,
to undergo the whips that have my black skin scraping free.

I'd give my life to guarantee that all of us are free,
just tie me to a tree if that means all of us could read,
and write inside the barn at night; on hay is where I sleep,
the garbage that's thrown outside of the big house; where I eat.

It can't go on like this forever can it? One day soon,
the master could just set us free, and on the day he do,
I'll dance along the road up North to where a few get old,
it can't go on like this; I wonder what the future holds.

The Year 2013

While standin in this trap I gotta keep my pupils peeled,
cause n****s nowadays are out for scrill; that ruthless kill,
been hustlin all my life and now I feel just like a slave,
from sunup til the sun go down? Its moreso night and day.

I think what coulda happened if I woulda stayed in school,
but gettin paper on the block; to me that way was cool,
I used to think that n****s in the schoolhouse played the fool,
don't have no friends no more; they either knocked or slayed with tools.

My mother kicked me out; I shoulda took this s**t down south,
cause mom dukes wasnt havin all these bricks up in the house,
I see her on her way to work and she dont even speak,
won't look my way for weeks but yo, ya boy aint even beat.

I got a little crib but see my girlfriend steady trip,
just bearin down on me but I aint wit that teddy s**t,
then there's another shorty talkin bout some pregnant s**t,
ain't spoke to her in months; of course I had to dead that quick.

This life I got is mine to live, if so I'll go alone,
I'll stack my cake and flip it; pretty soon I'll hold the throne,
til then I'll make this money constant; holdin down the street,
and reppin for my homies til they put me down deceased.

Think about it.

©2013
The Cunning Linguist

Author's Note

At the time I was watching the miniseries "Roots" for the first time and the comparison rooted itself in my head.

Reviews

[Relic]

I'm speechless in a way. I like the way you shifted the dialect slightly. From reading this, I get the feeling things haven't changed too much. Strife, hate, depression, anxiety, and anger still have roots in the black culture. But being white, I can only assume that.

I see the poverty, the drugs, the murder, the rampant crime, the attitude of giving up and not caring for many within the black community. It's more than a shame. Its sad. Very sad.

You wrote this well. Real well.