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.