Caroling Dusk/Bottled
BOTTLED
Upstairs on the third floorOf the 135th Street libraryIn Harlem, I saw a littleBottle of sand, brown sandJust like the kids make piesOut of down at the beach.But the label said: “ThisSand was taken from the Sahara desert.”Imagine that! The Sahara desert!Some bozo’s been all the way to Africa to get some sand.
And yesterday on Seventh AvenueI saw a darky dressed fit to kill
In yellow gloves and swallow tail coatAnd swirling a cane. And everyoneWas laughing at him. Me too,At first, till I saw his faceWhen he stopped to hear aOrgan grinder grind out some jazz.Boy! You should a seen that darky’s face!It just shone. Gee, he was happy!And he began to dance. NoCharleston or Black Bottom for him.No sir. He danced just as dignifiedAnd slow. No, not slow either.Dignified and proud! You couldn’tCall it slow, not with all theCuttin’ up he did. You would a died to see him.
The crowd kept yellin’ but he didn’t hear,Just kept on dancin’ and twirlin’ that caneAnd yellin’ out loud every once in a while.I know the crowd thought he was coo-coo.But say, I was where I could see his face,And somehow, I could see him dancin’ in a jungle,A real honest-to-cripe jungle, and he wouldn’t have on themTrick clothes—those yaller shoes and yaller glovesAnd swallow-tail coat. He wouldn’t have on nothing.And he wouldn’t be carrying no cane.He’d be carrying a spear with a sharp fine pointLike the bayonets we had “over there.”And the end of it would be dipped in some kind of Hoo-doo poison. And he’d be dancin’ black and naked and gleaming.And he’d have rings in his ears and on his noseAnd bracelets and necklaces of elephants’ teeth.Gee, I bet he’d be beautiful then all right.No one would laugh at him then, I bet.Say! That man that took that sand from the Sahara desertAnd put it in a little bottle on a shelf in the library,That’s what they done to this shine, ain’t it? Bottled him.Trick shoes, trick coat, trick cane, trick everything—all glass—But inside—Gee, that poor shine!