The cotton plantation was dreary yet our home
We worked hard in the fields under constant abuse
Cutting and gathering for our Master's excuse
That his homely brick house needed more shiny chrome

At night, we slept in sheds, without proper bedding
Cold and sometimes hungry, we chased away trouble
By engaging in songs that lifted our bubble
Words of our origins that kept our tongues spreading

We developed our signs to help each other out
Knowledge that our Master, was raping our sisters
Sadly volunteering to soak deep in blisters

When we got our freedom, we knew our deadly route
Finding the sinister, the beast of our torture
For vengeance at the hands of family order