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Troy Maxson

Southern trees bear strange fruit,Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.Pastoral scene of the gallant south,The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,Here is a strange and bitter crop.

A Dream DeferredWhat happens to a dream deferred?Does it dry uplike a raisin in the sun?Or fester like a sore–And then run?Does it stink like rotten meat?Or crust and sugar over–like a syrupy sweet?Maybe it just sagslike a heavy load.Or does it explode?Langston Hughes


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