Full lips do sing the songs of my people,
With eyes, trinkets, that sparkle in the night,
And our gospel will flow throughout th’steeple,
A song of our fury, song of our fight.
We see candy red suits and cadillacs,
Both drive highways and the dirt roads now lost,
Though some, they say, that a poet won’t crack,
We remember price tags, forget the cost.
Just need a washboard. Jug, maybe a heart,
And too the fiddle will play Cyrus out,
I can see it coming, this is my part,
Orchestral elegy, but then I shout.
A melody carries, little remains,
So they tell us “those jus’ the growing pains.”
Written from “Monument to the Minds of Little Negro Steelworkers”