The scramble for script presence
Prominent and impasive pieces of the puzzle,
Force their way to the print essence
Paramount are all but the blaze; ...
My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white.
White as an angel is the English child:
But I am black as if bereav'd of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree
And sitting down before the heat of day.
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
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