I saw a Black Man walking
in Old Orleans,
In a day when it wasn't fashionable
to be black.
His body was twisted and bent out of shape,
And I noticed as he shuffled along,
that his feet didn't keep beat with the street.
When I stopped and asked him what he minded most,
(an arrogant assumnption that he minded both),
He stood as tall as his frame would allow...
"No Ma'am, I don't mind being a Black Man,
And I don't mind this old body being twisted,
And beat out of shape, but I sure hates livin' in a city
Where Jazz is the King, and my feet won't keep
the beat of the street.
Yes, I sure hates livin' in a city where Jazz is the King,
and my feet won't keep beat with the street."
Awed by his countenance,
I felt a deep loss.
For I of fair skin and freedom of movement,
Felt the beat of the street.
I live in this city,
Where Jazz is the King,
And I never have felt
The beat of the street.
Oh, Life's never fair, as it deals out our fate-
But, are some refined and others defeated?
If the truth were knows, we're all