#AmericanWriters
Now dreams Are not available To the dreamers, Nor songs To the singers.
Have you dug the spill Of Sugar Hill? Cast your gims On this sepia thrill: Brown sugar lassie,
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
Because my mouth Is wide with laughter And my throat Is deep with song, You do not think
I worked for a woman, She wasn’t mean— But she had a twelve—room House to clean. Had to get breakfast,
When I was home de Sunshine seemed like gold. When I was home de Sunshine seemed like gold. Since I come up North de
Fine living . . . a la carte? Come to the Waldorf—Astoria! LISTEN HUNGRY ONES! Look! See what Vanity Fair says… new Waldorf—Astoria:
He glides so swiftly Back into the grass— Gives me the courtesy of road To let me pass, That I am half ashamed
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
Only dumb guys fight. If I wasn’t dumb I wouldn’t be fightin’. I could make six dollars a day On the docks
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
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,
I catch the pattern Of your silence Before you speak I do not need To hear a word.
The rent man knocked. He said, Howdy—do? I said, What Can I do for you? He said, You know
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