The Moore's Ford Blues

Down on the Apalachee,
A few miles from town,
There was lots of cussing
And an awful sound.

They were killing Mama's babies,
Just to see them die;
And when I think of Mama's babies,
All I do is cry and cry.

There was blood in the water,
There was blood in the road,
And there's blood on their hands;
They can't save their soul.

When I think of Mama's babies,
Lord, I sink and sigh;
When I think of Mama's babies,
All I do is cry and cry.

When they shoot an old mad dog,
They shoot him one or two,
But they shoot Black folks to pieces
Before they're through.

When I think of Mama's babies
And how they died...!
When I think of Mama's babies
All I do is cry and cry.

I have told the story,
Yes, you know it well:
See the killers kicking
In the devil's hell!

When you think of Mama's babies,
Lord, you'll sink and sign;
When you think of Mama's babies,
It makes you want to cry and cry.

by Samuel Hardman

Comments (1)

Sam I enjoyed reading yo poem, keep writing