#AmericanWriters #BlackWriters
Fine living . . . a la carte? Come to the Waldorf—Astoria! LISTEN HUNGRY ONES! Look! See what Vanity Fair says… new Waldorf—Astoria:
To fling my arms wide In some place of the sun, To whirl and to dance Till the white day is done. Then rest at cool evening
I, too, sing America. I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh,
He glides so swiftly Back into the grass— Gives me the courtesy of road To let me pass, That I am half ashamed
I went to the Gypsy’s. Gypsy settin’ all alone. I said, Tell me, Gypsy, When will my gal be home? Gypsy said, Silver,
I catch the pattern Of your silence Before you speak I do not need To hear a word.
The census man, The day he came round, Wanted my name To put it down. I said, Johnson,
I would liken you To a night without stars Were it not for your eyes. I would liken you To a sleep without dreams
I work all day, Said Simple John, Myself a house to buy. I work all day, Said Simple John,
Well, son, I’ll tell you: Life for me ain’t been no crystal… It’s had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up,
Love Is a ripe plum Growing on a purple tree. Taste it once And the spell of its enchantment
Have you dug the spill Of Sugar Hill? Cast your gims On this sepia thrill: Brown sugar lassie,
That Justice is a blind goddess Is a thing to which we black are w… Her bandage hides two festering so… That once perhaps were eyes.
The rent man knocked. He said, Howdy—do? I said, What Can I do for you? He said, You know
It would be nice In any case, To someday meet you Face to face Walking down
