If God Permitted Pirates on the Mississippi
A poah man leans on his plow to rest in the Delta swelter,
As his mule lies by the bank,
Dipping its head in the muddy sweet.
The flood had receded,
And what was left for poah whites and poah blacks
Was merely lowland labor.
The farmhouses and acres of the lords,
And the soybeans and cotton of the peasants,
Had long been erased and transported elsewhere by the river water,
And God’s farm ground and Mississippi molehills must be restored,
After he himself reeled back the river.
So like hail atop Pharaoh’s palace, the poah man slides to the ground
When he has had enough, and falls into a haze.
The slumping mule is startled by a catfish wading along the shore.
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