pick a pound

pick a pound of cotton pan a pound of gold
think I’d rather pick a pound of cotton before I’d make it to the ground and fold
I’d weave a suit of armour as light as could be
without the whips and chains and claims surrounding me
faster than the speed of sound, more charming than a wave, pans all dusted in gold
drove my man off the land and put him in his grave
he sought not nor did he see the things that grew before him let the river run free
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