Share-Croppers

Just a herd of Negroes

Driven to the field,

Plowing, planting, hoeing,

To make the cotton yield.

When the cotton's picked

And the work is done

Boss man takes the money

And we get none,

Leaves us hungry, ragged

As we were before.

Year by year goes by

And we are nothing more

Than a herd of Negroes

Driven to the field --

Plowing life away

To make the cotton yield.