“Only in America can a dead black boy go on trial for his own murder.”
― Syreeta McFadden
I am deeply saddened and enraged beyond words at the news that Zimmerman has been acquitted of all charges and has therefore gotten away with murder, or rather a lynching. I am far too upset to give any kind of detailed analysis or statement. All I can say is this: mark my words, there will be hell to pay for this soon enough.
This song means so much to me. It brings tears to my eyes. I’ve listened to it so many times during times like these over the years.
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 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.
The Espresso Stalinist 