Scabs

By Marcus B. Christian

Ford never made him -- Cadillac wouldn't;

Nor General Motors -- the Austin folks couldn't.

Plug-ugly mountain of black meat and bone,

Yet something the Present could label its own.

"Twas the Harmony Street wharf, at eight in the night,

With thirty five of us expecting a fight;

For thirty-three hours we'd worked on a stretch --

Worked at unloading -- at carry and fetch.

We was so tired, we was only half-awake --

Was hulkin' big Scotty and dog-tired me -- Jake

We wouldn't have done it, but we was dead broke

And needed the money -- and that was no joke.

"Now, look out for strikers till St. Mary's passed,"

I mumbled to Scotty, who'd jumped the truck last.

I hadn't a keyring -- plain craziness, that;

But Scotty was toting an ugly black gat.

At St. Mary Street wharf a car drew along,

Then red hell and death rained -- life went for a song.

"Run, Scotty!" I cried out, "I'll get outa view!"

"And leave you?" asked Scotty, "No I'll stick with you!"

While black men ran screaming out into the night,

Big Scotty stood towering and ready for flight;

Defiant he stood there, his gat barking loud,

And death flowed around us -- a moving, black cloud.

He cussed them and called them what came from his head;

Then, suddenly, silence, and then, the car fled.

When things sorta quieted and fighting was done

I thanked the Lord Jesus that Scotty had run.

Just then a fear struck me . . . I felt . . . warm and red

Through his jumper the blood -- my partner was dead.

Ford never made him -- Cadillac wouldn't;

Nor General Motors -- the Austin folks couldn't.

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