Some are teethed on a silver spoon, <br />With the stars strung for a rattle; <br />I cut my teeth as the black racoon-- <br />For implements of battle. <br />Some are swaddled in silk and down, <br />And heralded by a star; <br />They swathed my limbs in a sackcloth gown <br />On a night that was black as tar. <br />For some, godfather and goddame <br />The opulent fairies be; <br />Dame Poverty gave me my name, <br />And Pain godfathered me. <br />For I was born on Saturday-- <br />"Bad time for planting a seed," <br />Was all my father had to say, <br />And, "One mouth more to feed." <br />Death cut the strings that gave me life, <br />And handed me to Sorrow, <br />The only kind of middle wife <br />My folks could beg or borrow.<br /><br />Countee Cullen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/saturday-s-child/
