#AmericanWriters
The census man, The day he came round, Wanted my name To put it down. I said, Johnson,
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…
I know I am The Negro Problem Being wined and dined, Answering the usual questions That come to white mind
The rent man knocked. He said, Howdy—do? I said, What Can I do for you? He said, You know
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
Tell all my mourners To mourn in red — Cause there ain’t no sense In my bein’ dead.
Love Is a ripe plum Growing on a purple tree. Taste it once And the spell of its enchantment
The night is beautiful, So the faces of my people. The stars are beautiful, So the eyes of my people. Beautiful, also, is the sun.
Have you dug the spill Of Sugar Hill? Cast your gims On this sepia thrill: Brown sugar lassie,
Down in the bass That steady beat Walking walking walking Like marching feet. Down in the bass
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 —
You say I O.K.ed LONG DISTANCE? O.K.ed it when? My goodness, Central That was then!
Remember The days of bondage— And remembering— Do not stand still. Go to the highest hill
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…
When a man starts out with nothing… When a man starts out with his han… Empty, but clean, When a man starts to build a world… He starts first with himself