The Cocks Crow
It’s hard labor working these fields
pulling potatoes from the dirt
ain’t no easy task
no quarter given
and none to ask
Irish, Asians
Africans, and Mexicans
we know our rows
and don long sleeves
scarves, hoods, and sombreros
cause this ain’t no time for tanning
this bent over heat
will grind you into the dirt
and leave you to the crows
but we walk home straight
when the suns ember smolders
wash off the dust
and laugh like a sinner
Mama brings strong drink
to spice up our dinner
and after pushing our children
in swings made of tires
we tuck them in
and tend to our fires
the men and women
loving hard and long
like the life they live
and a field picking song
then sleep through the night
till the crowing of the sun
and the rising of the cock
for to smile a new day
at the passion we have known
at the harvest we have reaped
and the seed we have sown.