It Frightens Me To Realize

The Forties And Fifties Were Years Of High Poet-incense; The Language-flowers Were Thickly Sweet. Those Flowers Whined And Begged White Folks To Pick Them, To Find Them Lovable. Then The '60s: Independent Fire!

We Real Cool. We Left School. We Lurk Late. We Strike Straight. We Sing Sin. We Thin Gin. We Jazz June. We Die Soon.

I Think It Must Be Lonely To Be God. Nobody Loves A Master. No.

Say To Them, Say To The Down-keepers, The Sun-slappers, The Self-soilers, The Harmony-hushers, "even If You Are Not Ready For Day It Cannot Always Be Night." You Will Be Right. For That Is The Hard Home-run. Live Not For Battles Won. Live Not For The-end-of-the-song. Live In The Along.

First Fight. Then Fiddle.