It's Ivy grown on stone,
A house with blood stained windows,
A house in which you still hear black voices,
A house in which they robbed them of their choices.

It's the land of the dead, though the deed says its not their's,
Picking cotton wasn't enough all those years,
And in the cotton fields the cottons have turned black
The racists of now act like thet don't know what caused that.

Black and white, they say the house has a type,
When the racists descents come they're erased from the world's sight,
And even in the midsts innocence the...