The little black children with velvet eyes Tell each other tremendous lies. They play at Manassas with guns of peeled Willow-stalks from the River Field, Chasing the Yanks into Kingdom Come While one of them beats on a catskin drum. They are happy because they don’t know why. They scare themselves pretending to die, But all through the scare, and before and after, Their voices are rich with the ancient laughter, The negro laughter, the blue-black rose, The laughter that doesn’t end with the lips But shakes the belly and curls the toes And prickles the end of the fingertips.