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.