Afters eight years, be less dan eight percent, <br />distinguish' friend, of coloured wif de whites <br />in de School, in de Souf. <br />—Is coloured gobs, is coloured officers, <br />Mr Bones. Dat's nuffin?—Uncle Tom, <br />sweep shut yo mouf, <br /> <br />is million blocking from de proper job, <br />de fairest houses & de churches eben. <br />—You may be right, Friend Bones. <br />Indeed you is. Defy flyin ober de world, <br />de pilots, ober ofays. Bit by bit <br />our immemorial moans <br /> <br />brown down to all dere moans. I flees that, sah. <br />They brownin up to ourn. Who gonna win? <br />—I wouldn't predict. <br />But I do guess mos peoples gonna lose. <br />I never saw no pickle wifout no hand. <br />O my, without no hand.<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-60-afters-eight-years-be-less-dan-eig/
