#AmericanWriters
Landlord, landlord, My roof has sprung a leak. Don’t you 'member I told you abou… Way last week? Landlord, landlord,
Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is… (America never was America to me.…
The census man, The day he came round, Wanted my name To put it down. I said, Johnson,
I worked for a woman, She wasn’t mean— But she had a twelve—room House to clean. Had to get breakfast,
Gather quickly Out of darkness All the songs you know And throw them at the sun Before they melt
You say I O.K.ed LONG DISTANCE? O.K.ed it when? My goodness, Central That was then!
Tell all my mourners To mourn in red — Cause there ain’t no sense In my bein’ dead.
From Christ to Ghandi Appears this truth— St. Francis of Assisi Proves it, too: Goodness becomes grandeur
Have you dug the spill Of Sugar Hill? Cast your gims On this sepia thrill: Brown sugar lassie,
When you turn the corner And you run into yourself Then you know that you have turned All the corners that are left
I live on a park bench. You, Park Avenue. Hell of a distance Between us two. I beg a dime for dinner—
Listen! Dear dream of utter aliveness— Touching my body of utter death— Tell me, O quickly! dream of aliv… The flaming source of your bright…
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 —
Only dumb guys fight. If I wasn’t dumb I wouldn’t be fightin’. I could make six dollars a day On the docks
How still, How strangely still The water is today, It is not good For water