We planted songs

In cotton fields

Backs bent down

On our toes, our heels

Our voices prayed

When we could not

We planted songs on sacred ground.

Hope sprang from the callus on our thumbs

Watched as Massa sold our sons

Packed up freedom in the Mississippi dirt

Moved up North where pain wasn’t hurt

Silly us, couldn’t let it be

Thought strange fruit only grew on Southern Trees

Traded our crowns

In for concrete

Stopped growing our food

To buy our meat

Insects we traded for rats

Gave up the land

For the projects

Community tight, though enslaved we were

Gave up the land

To call him sir

He was after all, “The Man”

Suited and booted

like nobody can

But all that glitter, ain’t gold

Just because you don’t see chains

Don’t mean you ain’t sold

Stay true to yourself

Your history, your roots

Let no one come along

And steal your truth

Pay attention to what’s real

What’s sound

And keep your feet rooted

On sacred ground.