stoop labour will cure it in no time.
weeding vast fields from dawn to dark
everyday, while a man on a horse
with a shotgun makes sure you
keep up the pace or your face
will get a spray of mace or a bullwhip
across your wetback which has a wet
tshirt on it to keep a little cooler in
the blazing sun. as you consider
the injustice of it all, others relax
by the pool, gamble, eat like swine
the food you have worked as a volunteer
to bring to them, through weeding
and other activities in the fields.
and as they mock and laugh
and call you wetback you plan
and plot for the escape and one day
you and your compadres do, they pull
the slavemaster from his horse, strangle
him to death with his own bullwhip
and escape to the boats and become
fugitives and outlaws and pirates
of profit forever. they remember
the others left behind, slaughtered
in the fields at times. ground into meal
for the animals to feed on. they do
what they can to free them. not much
can be done. they sing songs of
love and peace as they weed and weed
and weed for years and years daily,
even holidays, for the food has to
be tended everyday, as all farmers know.
you slack off just one day, you may
never be able to catch up. there are
no holidays for farmers. and those that
thought they were real tuffs, only cream puffs.
and the cream puffs were the new meal
for the really really tuff tuffs. bon appetit.
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