For what do I stand?

                                            Is it the palm of my hand?

                                   The hand that worked through pain

                                    For the work of the white man?

                                               For what do I stand?

                                   Is it my heart which cannot hold

                            Much longer from the torture and stress?

                                    Should I stay or should I go?

                                 Should I stand or should I fold?

                                  But for what should I stand?

                                 I am not of solid gold.

                               Do not let light touch my face

                       Filled with such disgrace

                          For I have not yet stood.