DON'T BE SO CALLOW
Lucretia Mott makes apple sauce, and
I've got a really bad back. The bowling
ten-pick lethal alley will no longer see
me around. I'm going to Acapulco?
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On the wharf, the black folk are
throwing bales while the overseer
chews on straw. 'May he gag on his
own spit.' someone mutters.
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From Haiti, and Jamaica, and those
far old ocean isles, anything newly
opened, these damned whites begin
fighting over who goes where.
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Mississippi glacier port, Big Muddy
New Orleans : All those places along
the way. We work our asses off all
day. A little happy, maybe, but no pay.
-
The Master took my Jane away.
I'll get her back someday.
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