The Cotton-Pickers

Cotton is worn by king and prince,

Millionaire and president,

But the lowly cotton-picker

Sweats to earn each bloody cent.

Get going to the cotton field,

The sun is moving up and up.

Sling on your sack,

Tighten your belt—

Listen, the scales are turning.

Look at the food I get to eat—

Beans and chile, tortilla-bread—

And the scarecrow shirt I swiped,

Torn by bush and patched with shreds.

Get going to the cotton field,

The sun is moving on and on.

Sling on your sack,

Tighten your belt—

Listen, are the scales begging?

Cotton sells at soaring prices,

But I ain’t got a decent shoe.

My pants hang down in ragged threads,

Here and there my butt shows through.

Get going to the cotton field,

The sun climbs high too soon.

Sling on your sack,

Tighten your belt—

Listen, are the scales bossing?

On my head a straw sombrero,

Kicked in when I got beat.

But I couldn’t pick without it

Bending in the burning heat.

Get going to the cotton field,

The sun is aiming high.

Sling on your sack,

Tighten your belt—

Hey, are the scales trembling?

I’m just a lousy vagabond,

See, that’s the way they made me be,

And there’s no cotton crop for you

Unless it’s picked by bums like me.

March! — in cotton-picking ranks

Beneath the firing sun!

Or fill your sacks with rocks—

Hear, are the scales breaking?