Stop! Stop! How dare you laff et me, Bekaze I foul de time an' key, Thinks you dat I is Black Pattie, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head? O, Honey Lam'! dem sparklin' eyes, Dat offen laffs an' selem cries, Is sho a God gib natchel prize, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. An' doze wee ban's so sof an' sweet, Mates wid dem toddlin', velvet feet, Jes to roun' you out, complete, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. Sma't! youse sma't ez sma't kin be, Knows yore evah A, B, C, Plum on down to X, Y, Z, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. De man doan know how much he miss, Ef he ain't got no niece lak dis; Fro yore Unkel one mo' kiss, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head! I wist sum magic w'u'd ellow, (By charm or craf'--doan mattah how) You stay jes lak you is right now, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. ZALKA PEETRUZA (_Who Was Christened Lucy Jane_) She danced, near nude, to tom-tom beat, With swaying arms and flying feet, 'Mid swirling spangles, gauze and lace, Her all was dancing--save her face. A conscience, dumb to brooding fears, Companioned hearing deaf to cheers; A body, marshalled by the will, Kept dancing while a heart stood still: And eyes obsessed with vacant stare, Looked over heads to empty air, As though they sought to find therein Redemption for a maiden sin. 'Twas thus, amid force driven grace, We found the lost look on her face; And then, to us, did it occur That, though we saw--we saw not her. SPRIN' FEVAH Dar's a lazy, sortah hazy Feelin' grips me, thoo an' thoo; An' I feels lak doin' less dan enythin'; Dough de saw is sharp an' greasy, Dough de task et han' is easy, An' de day am fair an' breezy, Dar's a thief dat steals embition in de win'. Kaint defy it, kaint deny it, Kaze it jes won't be denied; Its a mos' pursistin' stubbern sortah thin'; Anti Tox' doan neutrolize it; Doctahs fail to analyze it; So I yiel's (dough I despise it) To dat res'less, wretchit fevah evah Sprin'. DE DRUM MAJAH He's struttin' sho ernuff, Wearin' a lady's muff En' ways erpon his head, Red coat ob reddest red, Purtty white satin ves', Gole braid ercross de ches'; Goo'ness! he cuts a stunt, Prancin' out dar in frunt, Leadin' his ban'. Wen dat ah whistle blows, Each man behine him knows 'Zacklee whut he mus' do; You bet! he dues it, too. W'en dat brass stick he twirls, Ole maids an' lub-sick gurls Looks on wid longin' eyes, Dey simpley idolize Dat han'sum man. Sweet fife an' piccalo, Bofe warblin' sof an' lo' Slide ho'n an' saxophones, Jazz syncopated tones, Snare drum an' lead cornet, Alto an' clarinet, Las', but not least, dar cum Cymbals an' big bass drum-- O! whut a ban'! Cose, we all undahstan' Each piece he'ps maik de ban', But dey all mus' be led, Sum one mus' be de head: No doubt, de centipede Has all de laigs he need, But take erway de head, Po' centipede am dead; So am de ban'. Fenton Johnson CHILDREN OF THE SUN