Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/586

 'Tain't by turnin' out to hack folks You're agoin' to git your right, Nor by lookin' down on black folks Coz you're put upon by white; Slavery ain't o' nary color, 'Tain't the hide thet makes it wus, All it keers fer in a feller 'S jest to make him fill its pus

To a Nine-inch Gun

(This poem came to the New York World office on a crumpled piece of soiled paper. The author's address was given as Fourth Bench, City Hall Park)

Whether your shell hits the target or not, Your cost is Five Hundred Dollars a Shot. You thing of noise and flame and power, We feed you a hundred barrels of flour Each time you roar. Your flame is fed With twenty thousand loaves of bread. Silence! A million hungry men Seek bread to fill their mouths again.