Free verse № 98033
The Negro
He toils;
Gnarled hands grope the tilth,
Baked-black hide caked in filth:
He's soiled.
He bolts;
O'er the fence, thro' Master's grounds,
Straight into the waiting hounds:
He halts.
He wails;
Bulging lips swell with rage,
Thrashing limbs to break his cage:
He fails.
He stoops;
White palms clenched about the bars,
As Master's whip inflicts new scars:
He droops.
He toils;
Gnarled hands grope the tilth,
Baked-black hide caked in filth:
He's soiled.
21 comments
I admire the economy of language. SupremeDreamer should take note.
He travails;
His anfractuous metacarpals impinge upon the alluvium,
His cauterized and atramentous integument is begrimed with feculence:
He's besmirched.
-10-
however, that jolting sensation? Where you smoothly rhyme two long lines, then go abruptly short? Don't change that.
Widely thought to have an enormous knob,
Picks his teeth with a dried corncob:
He's coloured.
Says things like 'Right on' and 'brother',
Robs the henhouse and engages in other
Malarky.
When Master's gone to bed,
He sneaks o'er 'hind the shed
And crouches.
The overseer with sawed-off spoon,
And when exposed to the light of the moon
Goes rabid.
Didn't believe us; down by the creek
She found him - O! I daren't speak
Of the horror!
NEGRO HOUR WILL BE ENDING IN TEN MINUTES
JESU HOUR WILL COMMENCE AS SOON AS NEGRO HOUR ENDS
LATER TODAY YOU WILL BE ENCOURAGED TO PARTICIPATE IN NAKED MUD WRESTLING WITH TEENAGE CHRISTIAN VIRGINS
PLEASE EAT YOUR GREENS
When [his] Master's gone to bed,
He sneaks [away] [behind] the shed
And crouches.
Better?
He strains;
His royal fruity gas is followed
By remains of what he last night swallowed:
Chilled monkey brains.
Log in to add a comment.