Once upon a time…we came to America,
Not knowing why, or where we were going…but we came.
Up on the auction block….sold, sold, sold,
With your pretty black selves.

Worked for the man, night and day,
With bent backs, glistening skin,
Not knowing when the day would come,
When we could go back home again.
With your pretty black selves.

We carried the scars of freedom,
We were raped by our captures.
Not know why, why, why,
With your pretty black selves.

We were bought, sold, bought and sold,
Over and over again,
Not knowing why.
Not knowing if we’d ever see each other again,
With your pretty black selves.

We sang, through the misery,
We sang, through the pain.
We sang for each other,
With your pretty black selves.

Now we, with our pretty black selves,
Have forgotten or just don’t want to talk about it.
How we came here, why we struggled and why we died,
We don’t want to say to our young, how we survived.

We’re loosing a generation,
Not wanting to speak of who we are.
We’re loosing a generation,
They’ve gone so, so far.

Let’s speak of OUR past,
Let’s be proud of who we are.
Pick up that mirror, look at yourself,
Then show it to the young.
And let them know,
That they are, oh they are,
As Pretty and as Black as you are.