THE COTTON GIN
At a cotton gin the King’s made thin,
Yet never shows the least chagrin,
In his sunny home in Dixie’s land,
That rich and poor may live and win.
He’s trifled with, but will not sin
Amongst his subjects, nor his kin,
Although he feels the iron band
At a cotton gin.
More just the King than a mandarin,
And I often think the cherubin
Would like themselves to understand
His long, rich round, and then command
At a cotton gin.