"Hero!" I'd call him.
"Hero!" I'd yell,
As he'd ache from field to field
And retrieve from the well.

Not a penny made,
The leftovers were mine to spare
But with a father as a share cropper,
I knew I had to share.

And so we feasted,
Our freedom new and sore.
Freely we can live,
With nothing to live for.

And then more harvesting,
My Hero looks back at me.
As I watch him, I realize:
We're Not Free.

Outside stood an upright cross,
Burning red with fire.
But no, I'll hide.
I'll keep my pride,
At the cost of their desire.

I'm lying down, life or death,
In the fields lacking green.
Freedom's just a word that's said;
My Hero's nowhere to be seen.

And yet, they call it freedom,
While staring at a pool of red.
But what's the price of freedom
If my Hero's body is lying dead.