Lord’s lost Him His mockingbird, <br />His fancy warbler; <br />Satan sweet-talked her, <br />four bullets hushed her. <br />Who would have thought <br />she’d end that way? <br /> <br /> <br />Four bullets hushed her. And the world a-clang with evil. <br />Who’s going to make old hardened sinner men tremble now <br />and the righteous rock? <br />Oh who and oh who will sing Jesus down <br />to help with struggling and doing without and being colored <br />all through blue Monday? <br />Till way next Sunday? <br /> <br /> <br />All those angels <br />in their cretonne clouds and finery <br />the true believer saw <br />when she rared back her head and sang, <br />all those angels are surely weeping. <br />Who would have thought <br />she’d end that way? <br /> <br /> <br />Four holes in her heart. The gold works wrecked. <br />But she looks so natural in her big bronze coffin <br />among the Broken Hearts and Gates-Ajar, <br />it’s as if any moment she’d lift her head <br />from its pillow of chill gardenias <br />and turn this quiet into shouting Sunday <br />and make folks forget what she did on Monday. <br /> <br /> <br />Oh, Satan sweet-talked her, <br />and four bullets hushed her. <br />Lord’s lost Him His diva, <br />His fancy warbler’s gone. <br />Who would have thought, <br />who would have thought she’d end that way?<br /><br />Robert Hayden<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mourning-poem-for-the-queen-of-sunday/
