Son, run with me

To a place where the people see more

Than an animal good to do his dirty chores

Come with me son, ‘cuz you’ll never break free

Whites think you’re stupid, negroes think you’re ugly

Your Mama, she’s met another man

And you don’t fit into to his and her plan

Young Man

You negroes are blessed with the gift of rhythm and rhyme

It’s all so fresh and exciting, and we’re looking for a good time

But just one thing, boy, we don’t understand

You’re always about the negro man

Enlighten us with something new

We know all about your people and you

Just be happy that you’ve got it good

And stay away from your old neighborhood

Hey Man

What’s wrong with you; all your preaching of beauty and pride

When I look toward the Golden Bosom all I see is a dirty tide

No matter how hard I listen I can’t hear those tom-tom laughs

And from where I’m sitting you’re surrounded by lush green grass

You walk amongst the enemy, and pick up a pen in your hand

And presume you could possibly speak for Mr. Everyday Blackman

All these years later, you still light the fire, Dear Mr. Langston Hughes

And all I can do is sympathize, I’m sorry for your Weary Blues

By: Krista Delle Femine