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Description
They say she's too green to sing the blues
like Billie done; her strange fruit is an unpollinated
bud that never has or ever will see Papa Sun.

Her lilting cries of pain don't have enough history
in them to satisfy the tumbled-silky old cats who
used to make the birds chirp like anything way back
when their pajamas were the nattiest in town.

Even if she could make saints walk the streets
of New Orleans just to be closer to her voice,
back at the lounge they'd still want capitol-H Holiday tides
she's prohibited from getting her pantaloons wet in
'cause she was born on the white side of the tracks,
away from the musical creating of the shoeshine-blue ocean.

Revolutions later, she dreams of the colorblind fruit she has borne
running off toward the sun with his graceful, brassy, trumpet of a lover
and trying to find Louis in the sounds of sticky, shrimp gumbo air.

Description
They say she's too green to sing the blues
like Billie done; her strange fruit is an unpollinated
bud that never has or ever will see Papa Sun.

Her lilting cries of pain don't have enough history
in them to satisfy the tumbled-silky old cats who
used to make the birds chirp like anything way back
when their pajamas were the nattiest in town.

Even if she could make saints walk the streets
of New Orleans just to be closer to her voice,
back at the lounge they'd still want capitol-H Holiday tides
she's prohibited from getting her pantaloons wet in
'cause she was born on the white side of the tracks,
away from the musical creating of the shoeshine-blue ocean.

Revolutions later, she dreams of the colorblind fruit she has borne
running off toward the sun with his graceful, brassy, trumpet of a lover
and trying to find Louis in the sounds of sticky, shrimp gumbo air.