Obama, 2008

Weep no more, my lady,
Oh weep no more today

YOU return to that shady corner in the trees, dappled with sunlight. You return with a faulty time machine, but you can still hear the choir singing My Old Kentucky Home, that melancholy song heard year upon year, moving ever further from the Mississippi where Stephen Foster wrote it. 1853 that was. The Black slaves tried to find some rest from the burning sun and the exhaustion of the tobacco fields

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