There was a scary ol’ black woman ghost
that carried a shotgun and snuck into the quarters
at night to steal little picaninnies an’ field hands.
She carried each one of ’em down to the creek
and covered ’em with mud to hide their scent,
then sang a magic song that made ’em all invisible.
They ran away so quickly even the bloodhounds
couldn’t catch ’em. She came back night after night
until she’d stole nearly every nigger in the quarters
and come spring there was hardly anybody to break
the ground and drop the seeds. In the summer
there was almost nobody to chop the cotton
when harvest time come, the poor old farmer and his wife
picked what they’d planted by themselves, worked
every day ’til sundown and even took supper in the fields.
They were both found on Christmas day, bent over
and frozen to a cotton bush, fingers and hands cut up
and still bleeding, after working themselves to death.