The Cotton Trail to Canada: An original work

The Cotton Trail to Canada
Poetry By Carter Cotton

Well, life was sure fine by th’ sugah pines on th’ Adams Farm, you know;

Back when Jeb Crow was but a young-un, roamin’ to an’ fro;

It all changed one day, on th’ fifth of May, back in 1829;

When a trader came up, an’ for him, paid ten dollars, less a dime.

‘Twas a mighty rough ride in th’ midday sun, with no shade, nary a tree;

Even to this day, that ol’ forsaken road is still straight as can be;

Upon passin’ a sign, they crossed th’ ‘Bama state line, into th’ antebellum south;

Young Jeb was so skeered, so unprepared, scarce a sound came from his mouth.

On th’ Butler plantation, th’ workload was hastenin’, ‘twas cotton plantin’ time;

Only thing to hear was th’ ringin’ an’ swingin’ o’ th’ metal wind chimes;

Then all a sudden, th’ silence was broken, by a crack so loud an’ mean;

It sent a deep gash right up Jeb’s back, so bloody, proud, an’ unclean.

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Pickins were mighty slim, an’ Jeb got really thin in summer months, you know;

When ol’ Massa Butler, in th’ house with white columns, was takin’ it nice and slow;

Th’ cotton fields were hot as heck, at high noon, while the house was mighty cool;

What Jeb wouldn’t do for a sip o’ water, a patch o’ shade, or a dip in the slough.

One sultry night, a-tremblin’ with fright, Jeb wrestled demons as he lay;

Ponderin’ th’ abuse he’d face in th’ scorchin’ cotton fields e’ery day;

Pale as a sheet, on shakin’ feet, young Jeb started for th’ creaky door;

An’ slipped out o’ th’ pitiful shack;  ‘twas early on October twenty-four.

Two hours later at roll call, outside th’ crumblin’ shacks;

Jeb was ‘ported absent, Massa Butler blew his stack;

While th’ cottonmouths rose up from the swamps a-hissin’;

Jeb was tryin’ to find a peaceful place, a sanctuary in which to go a-missin’.

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Now, the Massa’s bloodhounds were a-sniffin’ th’ dixie dust, a-followin’ Jeb’s trail;

When all a sudden, th’ menacin’ clouds opened up, bringin’ down buckets o’ hail;

A blessin’ for Jeb was a cuss for the hounds; the scent a-washed to kingdom come;

For ‘twas reachin’ th’ season when th’ rains come to reason, an’ miss darkness eats th’ sun.

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Th’ promise land was a-nearin’ now, dixie but a distant memory;

Twenty days had passed; Jeb was all but drained o’ energy;

There lay a lake, so vast and deep, ‘twas o’ Erie fame;

Ne’er had Jeb been so relieved, so proud to hear one name.

On th’ north banks Jeb was free, an’ ready to start his life anew;

Far from th’ strife an’ white supremacy that th’ old south a-spews;

A gruelin’ journey o’ escapin’ th’ south took a lot o’ stamina;

Finally, now Jeb had some rights an’ a new home, in th’ fabled land o’ Canada.