I am weaving a song of waters, Shaken from firm, brown limbs, Or heads thrown back in irreverent mirth. My song has the lush sweetness Of moist, dark lips Where hymns keep company With old forgotten banjo songs. Abandon tells you That I sing the heart of a race While sadness whispers That I am the cry of a soul. . . .

A-shoutin’ in de ole camp-meetin’ place, A-strummin’ o’ de ole banjo. Singin’ in de moonlight, Sobbin’ in de dark. Singin’, sobbin’, strummin’ slow . . . Singin’ slow; sobbin’ low. Strummin’, strummin’, strummin’ slow. . . .

Words are bright bugles That make the shining for my song, And mothers hold brown babes To dark, warm breasts To make my singing sad.

A dancing girl with swaying hips Sets mad the queen in a harlot’s eye. Praying slave Jazz band after Breaking heart To the time of laughter. . . . Clinking chains and minstrelsy Are welded fast with melody. A praying slave With a jazz band after . . . Singin’ slow, sobbin’ low. Sun-baked lips will kiss the earth. Throats of bronze will burst with mirth. Sing a little faster, Sing a little faster! Sing!