A Strange and Bitter Crop

I've been listenting to this Billie Holiday song (actually written by a whitey called Lewis Allen, interestingly) this afternoon. It's about the lynching of blacks in the American South. Haunting and beautiful. Pretty sure they don't write 'em like this no more.

The rather wonderful lyrics are as follows:

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.


Give it a listen.