The blood drips on the white cotton, I pick 

They say the darker the berry, the sweeter the juice 

My juice don't seem to sweet, full of bitterness and bondage 

They lynch my husband, sell my son, rape my daughter 

And I still pick 

The hot sun beams on my skin and I pick for the generations after me 

I pick white cotton as my juice drips from my eyes I'll pick

I pick for hope, I pick for freedom, I pick for change