Aches in our backs, defeat in our glare,
For we matter not. Do we not?
Regarded less than human is our flock.
Daily degradation, hatred everywhere,
Lack of education, infants in our care,
Not even family plots when we rot,
Regarded less than human is our flock.
Beaten and broken and bent out of shape,
Bashful and baffled, we bastards of fate,
Hell played in mazes of rays from the sun,
Horrified by howls of hounds if we run,
Aimless anguished labor for fat millionaires,
No wealth to come to us, only whips if one dares,
Of acts of inhumanity this was the epoch.
Regarded less than human, still, is our flock.
