I do not weep at the world I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.
Night came walking through Egypt swishing her black dress.
And I can't die easy thinking maybe the menfolks white or black is making a spit cup out of you. Have some sympathy for me. Put me down easy, Janie, I'm a cracked plate.
If it was so honorable and glorious to be black, why was it the yellow-skinned people among us had so much prestige?
Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves. It fails to register depression with me.