#AmericanWriters
Love Is a ripe plum Growing on a purple tree. Taste it once And the spell of its enchantment
2 and 2 are 4. 4 and 4 are 8. But what would happen If the last 4 was late? And how would it be
The ivory gods, And the ebony gods, And the gods of diamond and jade, Sit silently on their temple shelv… While the people
It would be nice In any case, To someday meet you Face to face Walking down
Tell all my mourners To mourn in red — Cause there ain’t no sense In my bein’ dead.
I sat there singing her Songs in the dark. She said; 'I do not understand The words’.
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—
We passed their graves: The dead men there, Winners or losers, Did not care. In the dark
I would liken you To a night without stars Were it not for your eyes. I would liken you To a sleep without dreams
Fine living . . . a la carte? Come to the Waldorf—Astoria! LISTEN HUNGRY ONES! Look! See what Vanity Fair says… new Waldorf—Astoria:
I take my dreams and make of them… and a round fountain with a beauti… And a song with a broken heart and… Do you understand my dreams? Sometimes you say you do,
By what sends the white kids I ain’t sent: I know I can’t be President.
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!
Harlem Sent him home in a long box— Too dead To know why:
I am God— Without one friend, Alone in my purity World without end. Below me young lovers