Field hands keeps on hoein’ de corn, Stupidest niggers ever born, All dey’s good for is gravy-lickin’, Ram-buttin’ and cotton-pickin’; Dey don’t hear de wind in de slew, But dat wind’s blowin’ over ’em too, An’ dat wind’s res’less an’ dat wind’s wile, An’ dat wind aches like a motherless chile, Won’t nuthin’ feed you, achin’ wind?”

The hand stopped rubbing. The spoons were shined. He put them back in the flannel bag And stared at his scrap of chamois-rag. War was a throat that swallowed things And you couldn’t cure it with conjurings.