Without a tear rolling down our faces,
We survived with cotton, and Sunday graces.
Barefoot, yet happy dragging sacks to the wagon,
Boss Man at the mill was the only one braggin'.
Home before dark thanking God for a breeze,
Children climbed for relief in Chinaberry trees.
Molasses cookies, such simple fare,
Were highly praised on porch and stair.
Mama kept vigil on the home and field,
In constant prayers of sweet appeal.
Now in the sunset of my years, no cotton days forgotten,
For steadfast love had taken root in those dusty rows of cotton.