#AmericanWriters
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
It would be nice In any case, To someday meet you Face to face Walking down
I woke up this mornin’ ’Bout half-past three. All the womens in town Was gathered round me. Sweet gals was a-moanin’,
When you turn the corner And you run into yourself Then you know that you have turned All the corners that are left
Tell all my mourners To mourn in red — Cause there ain’t no sense In my bein’ dead.
Oh, silver tree! Oh, shining rivers of the soul! In a Harlem cabaret Six long—headed jazzers play. A dancing girl whose eyes are bold
The gold moth did not love him So, gorgeous, she flew away. But the gray moth circled the flam… Until the break of day. And then, with wings like a dead d…
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
I’m all alone in this world, she s… Ain’t got nobody to share my bed, Ain’t got nobody to hold my hand— The truth of the matter’s I ain’t got no man.
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,
Harlem Sent him home in a long box— Too dead To know why:
I play it cool I dig all jive. That's the reason I stay alive. My motto
God in His infinite wisdom Did not make me very wise— So when my actions are stupid They hardly take God by surprise
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