Hey little boy Don't u cry Ur eyes are sad Ur life is hard You work every day till the sun goes down Your father’s back in scars from whips Your mothers’ fingers bleed from cotton Every Sunday you go to church together And you pray ask God for the cotton fields to just be a short part of your long life
As only in one hundred years Your grandson will become the president of the USA And one million people will gather in gigantic square And one million voices will unite to say "You are the president the USA"