Наив - Strange Fruit

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Southern trees bear a

Strange, strange fruit,

Blood on the leaves

And blood at the root,

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   Black bodies swinging

   In the southern breeze,

   Strange fruit hanging

                     Am

   From the poplar trees.

Pastoral scenes of the gallant South,

The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,

Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh,

Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

   Strange fruit!

   Rotten cores!

   Racist ideas!

   Strange and stupid wars!

Here's fruit for the crows to pluck,

For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,

For the sun to rot, for the tree to drop,

Here is a strange and bitter crop.

   Strange fruit!

   Rotten cores!

   Racist ideas!

   Strange and stupid wars!