#AmericanWriters #BlackWriters
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune, Rocking back and forth to a mellow… I heard a Negro play. Down on Lenox Avenue the other ni… By the pale dull pallor of an old…
Where is the Jim Crow section On this merry—go—round, Mister, cause I want to ride? Down South where I come from White and colored
Fine living . . . a la carte? Come to the Waldorf—Astoria! LISTEN HUNGRY ONES! Look! See what Vanity Fair says… new Waldorf—Astoria:
We passed their graves: The dead men there, Winners or losers, Did not care. In the dark
Tell all my mourners To mourn in red — Cause there ain’t no sense In my bein’ dead.
I am God— Without one friend, Alone in my purity World without end. Below me young lovers
In the Quarter of the Negroes Where the doors are doors of paper Dust of dingy atoms Blows a scratchy sound. Amorphous jack—o’—Lanterns caper
been scared and battered. My hopes the wind done scattered. Snow has friz me, Sun has baked me, Looks like between 'em they done
Love Is a ripe plum Growing on a purple tree. Taste it once And the spell of its enchantment
Here I sit With my shoes mismated. Lawdy—mercy! I’s frustrated!
Down in the bass That steady beat Walking walking walking Like marching feet. Down in the bass
She, In the dark, Found light Brighter than many ever see. She,
I live on a park bench. You, Park Avenue. Hell of a distance Between us two. I beg a dime for dinner—
I work all day, Said Simple John, Myself a house to buy. I work all day, Said Simple John,
My old man’s a white old man And my old mother’s black. If ever I cursed my white old man I take my curses back. If ever I cursed my black old mot…
