#AmericanWriters #BlackWriters
'Me an’ ma baby’s Got two mo’ ways, Two mo’ ways to do de Charleston!… Da, da, Da, da, da!
It’s such a Bore Being always Poor.
Have you dug the spill Of Sugar Hill? Cast your gims On this sepia thrill: Brown sugar lassie,
From Christ to Ghandi Appears this truth— St. Francis of Assisi Proves it, too: Goodness becomes grandeur
Love Is a ripe plum Growing on a purple tree. Taste it once And the spell of its enchantment
Big Boy came Carrying a mermaid On his shoulders And the mermaid Had her tail
It would be nice In any case, To someday meet you Face to face Walking down
What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run?
When I was home de Sunshine seemed like gold. When I was home de Sunshine seemed like gold. Since I come up North de
Go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you— Then, it will be true. I wonder if it’s that simple?
I will take you heart. I will take your soul out of your… As though I were God. I will not be satisfied With the touch of your hand
I live on a park bench. You, Park Avenue. Hell of a distance Between us two. I beg a dime for dinner—
God in His infinite wisdom Did not make me very wise— So when my actions are stupid They hardly take God by surprise
When the shoe strings break On both your shoes And you’re in a hurry— That’s the blues. When you go to buy a candy bar
Gather quickly Out of darkness All the songs you know And throw them at the sun Before they melt