on her back a cotton sack upon it
Seeing her face full of pride, while on that sack I would ride
Up and down those never ending rows, while she picked those little balls of snow
Picking the cotton from those hard dry bolls was tough, it cut her hands and made them rough
And while she worked hard to earn her pay around the cotton stalks I would play
Her work would not be done until the setting of the evening sun
And then it would be another day for her to work and me to play.
--James T., Adult