Harlem Wine by Countée Cullen
1 min to read 67 words
This is not water running here, These thick rebellious streams That hurtle flesh and bone past fear Down alleyways of dreams.
This is a wine that must flow on Not caring how or where, So it has ways to flow upon Where song is in the air.
So it can woo an artful flute With loose, elastic lips, Its measurement of joy compute With blithe, ecstatic hips.
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She of the Dancing Feet Sings by Countée Cullen
1 min to read 100 words
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