Oct 302013
 
A cinnamon wind in the bottletree
Blows low through evening's branches;
Other trees once leaned in a darker wind's lee,
'Strange fruit' hanging in the beautiful boughs.
Man-in-the-moon is old, and we are young;
Man, that cat ain't got my tongue.

Such things of such despair were done
It seemed every heart must hurt and curse--
So joyless the song that man had wrung,
It seemed worse must give way to the worst.
Man-in-the-moon is old, and we are young;
Man, that cat ain't got my tongue.

Bluebirds tweet witty in the sad countryside,
Twig-nests feathered with many-colored pride;
With eighty-eight keys, and a smile as wide, renowned
'Fats' sat down without care or frown: 
Man-in-the-moon is old, and we are young;
Man, that cat ain't got my tongue.

Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.