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| Cottonmouth Blues Derrick Harriell |
Ole King Cotton, Ole King Cotton, Keeps us slavin' Till we'se dead an' rotten. - Sterling Brown As the sun spreads itself across my slick black back there's a party happening in Harlem. Negros doing the free dance beside Peeping Toms who get off seeing monkeys blow anguish through shiny brass hypnotizing even the bourbon. BoJack say in the North Negro preachers' pulpits stand between prostitutes and nameless curbs smashing the word into blues verse while the old hands sing popular songs in unpopular rooms for unpopular folks. Last I heard Negros had our own city to make love to at night and if it was real good we'd share a smoke with the black air and giggle prayers as we dream off to sleep. There's whispers of a woman holdin' the voice of God. When the city real still you can hear her hollering laments to knees, hands, backs, shoulders and legs turned ash, tongues turned crinkled roses, mouths turned abandoned wells. |
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