Strange Fruit

The shame of being human sometimes is overwhelming.

The hypocrisy of the word humane makes my stomach turn.

 Our savagery is sustained by a flag of rotten ideals.

 

But how to distinguish which ideals are rotten

Which ideals are beginning to rot

Which ideals will surely expire before we notice any smell emanating.

Which ideals will go from a fragrant fruit to rotten flesh...

Strange Fruit

Southern trees bear strange fruit,

Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,

Black body swinging in the Southern breeze,

Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant South,

The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,

Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh,

Then the sudden smell of burning flesh!

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,

For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,

For the sun to rot, for the tree to drop,

Here is a strange and bitter crop.

 

(Strange Fruit is a Poem by Abel Meeropol and sang by Billie Holiday)