Clean the spittoons, boy.
Detroit,
Chicago,
Atlantic City,
Palm Beach.

When Susanna Jones wears red
her face is like an ancient cameo
Turned brown by the ages.
Come with a blast of trumphets, J
When Susanna Jones wears red

When I get to be a composer
I’m gonna write me some music abou
Daybreak in Alabama
And I’m gonna put the purtiest so
Rising out of the ground like a sw

Tell all my mourners
To mourn in red —
Cause there ain’t no sense
In my bein’ dead.

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

Being walkers with the dawn and mo
Walkers with the sun and morning,
We are not afraid of night,
Nor days of gloom,
Nor darkness—

I know I am
The Negro Problem
Being wined and dined,
Answering the usual questions
That come to white mind

My old mule,
He’s gota grin on his face.
He’s been a mule so long
He’s forgotten about his race.
I’m like that old mule —

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

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?