Ode to the slave master who assumes his immediate environment is his plantation farm where the slave is condemned to his fate of work, work, and work without the faintest lift of his cruel brow in appreciation.
The heart of the slave master was solid ice bereft of the slimmest gesture of affection.
Every kind gesture or warmth from the slave the slave master acknowledged with the stiffest penalty of lashings from the twisting whirling whip and the torrent of words running through cruel pharynx.
The lashings forever tattooed in the body and soul of the devoted slave.
The fact that the slave had various occasions placed his life on the path of danger to preserve the slave master has not soften the pipsqueak ballooning in pomposity in his slave mastery.
Mr. Slave master, remember the destiny of the slave you constantly keelhaul is in the hands of his maker. Some day he is going to be free.
Events through the mystery hands of the unquestionable God can catapult the slave and make him like an Obama in the white house.