Poetry
Fruit of the Flower My father is a quiet man With sober, steady ways; For simile, a folded fan; His nights are like his days. My mother's life is puritan, No hint of cavalier, A pool so calm you're sure it can Have little depth to fear. And yet my father's eyes can boast How full his life has been; There haunts them yet the languid ghost Of some still sacred sin. And though my mother chants of God, And of the mystic river, I've seen a bit of checkered sod Set all her flesh aquiver. Why should he deem it pure mischance A son of his is fain To do a naked tribal dance Each time he hears the rain? Why should she think it devil's art That all my songs should be Of love and lovers, broken heart, And wild sweet agony? Who plants a seed begets a bud, Extract of that same root; Why marvel at the hectic blood That flushes this wild fruit? Countee Cullen |
Music
12th Street Rag In a certain city, where The girls are cute and pretty, They have a raggy jazzy jazz time tune. When you hear that syncopated Jazz created melody You could dance all morning Night and noon, When the slide trombone And moaning saxophone begin to play. It will make you sad, 'Twill make you glad Oh! Boy, What Joy, Burn my clothes for I'm in Heaven, Wish I had a million women, Soloman in all his glory, Could have told another story, Were he but living here today, With his thousand wives or more, A Jazz Band on some Egypt shore, He could dance the night and day away. I will tell you how they dance That tantalizing 12th. Street Rag. Chorus: First you slide and then you glide, Then shimmie for a while; To the left then to the right "Lame Duck" "Get over Sal" Watch your step then Pirouette, Fox Trot, then squeeze your pal Over you comes stealing Such a funny feeling 'Til you feel Your senses reeling, Tantalizing, hypnotizing, Mesmerizing strain, I can't get enough of it Please play it o'er again I could dance for ever To this refrain, To that 12th. Street, Oh you 12th. Street Rag. Fats Waller |
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