Afters eight years, be less dan eight percent,
Distinguish’ friend, of coloured wif de whites
In de School, in de Souf.
Â€”Is coloured gobs, is coloured officers,
Mr Bones. Dat’s nuffin? â€”Uncle Tom,
Sweep shut yo mouf,
Is million blocking from de proper job,
De fairest houses & de churches eben.
Â€”You may be right, Friend Bones.
Indeed you is. Defy flyin ober de world,
De pilots, ober ofays. Bit by bit
Our immemorial moans
Brown down to all dere moans. I flees that, sah.
They brownin up to ourn. Who gonna win?
Â€”I wouldn’t predict.
But I do guess mos peoples gonna lose.
I never saw no pickle wifout no hand.
O my, without no hand.