Poem

Yes, in the place where dreams are made,
In the land of the free and the home of the brave,
Where Liberty lovingly sings her song,
There's a broken, wicked land of wrong--
Under the hot, beating, sun,
During the days that stretch so long,
The white man snaps his whip, and there!
The cries of the enslaved you can hear,
They're forced to work for nothing--the whole race!
Because the tyrant has a paler face.

Amid the songs and joyful cries
Of Hallelujah! The great fires
of rage and fear ring out among
The old and wizened, the restless and young.
No more!" some say. "We won't have it!"
How dare you enslave the African race?"
The others say, "We won't quit!
We're better because we have a paler face."

Why must we go on through life this way
Where we are better than the slaves
And make them do whatever we've wanted
And deny them privileges we take for granted
Because of something they cannot change,
Because the tyrants have a paler face.