You sure gone to love it, walking by that picket fence yonder, story I’m gone to tell you. Back in ’59 when I was 7 living on that Kentucky mansion working for the man, he done told me, see that store yonder, they done sold bad chickens got ever one sick as dogs. Them white folks, they done stayed in bed three, five, seven days depending on how strong they were. Made life easier for us colored folk, didn’t have to work no hard or hear so much tinny racketing. Get me this you lazy maid, you never done listen to me. Ain’t never heard such nonsense as from the man and his ladies. Talk like they brains gone to the chickens.
They never done known, tell a good chicken from a bad. Seven years old I knew when to turn my nose up and say, No ma’am. Served me good these years up in New York since I ran away fall of ’59. Good riddance to the man, gone to the north soon as I could. I wanted to learn, I wanted to read, I wanted to write.
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