#AmericanWriters
Have you dug the spill Of Sugar Hill? Cast your gims On this sepia thrill: Brown sugar lassie,
I worked for a woman, She wasn’t mean— But she had a twelve—room House to clean. Had to get breakfast,
It was a long time ago. I have almost forgotten my dream. But it was there then, In front of me, Bright like a sun—
God in His infinite wisdom Did not make me very wise— So when my actions are stupid They hardly take God by surprise
I, too, sing America. I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh,
Harlem Sent him home in a long box— Too dead To know why:
Landlord, landlord, My roof has sprung a leak. Don’t you 'member I told you abou… Way last week? Landlord, landlord,
From Christ to Ghandi Appears this truth— St. Francis of Assisi Proves it, too: Goodness becomes grandeur
Clean the spittoons, boy. Detroit, Chicago, Atlantic City, Palm Beach.
Let’s go see Old Abe Sitting in the marble and the moon… Sitting lonely in the marble and t… Quiet for ten thousand centuries,… Quiet for a million, million years…
Tell all my mourners To mourn in red — Cause there ain’t no sense In my bein’ dead.
By what sends the white kids I ain’t sent: I know I can’t be President.
Love Is a ripe plum Growing on a purple tree. Taste it once And the spell of its enchantment
I went down to the river, I set down on the bank. I tried to think but couldn’t, So I jumped in and sank. I came up once and hollered!
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,