Southern trees bear a 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 mouths,
scent of magnolia sweet and fresh,
in the sudden smell of burning flesh.
Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck,
for the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
for the sun to rot, for a tree to drop,
here is a strange and bitter crop.
I cannot take this anymo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ore Saying everything I've said befo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ore All these words they make…
(Hey, you're really crazy... You know that?) I thought that I was calling up my…
I've been sucking morning Waiting for the beat I've been running circles Searching for the…