Way down South where they once grew cotton
Old times there must be forgotten
Go away, Go away Go away Dixie land.

In this very year of the Sesquicentennial
Hatred blooms as a hardy perennial.
Go away, Go away Go away Dixie land.

Don’t want to be in Dixie Today! Today!
In Dixie land a white young man
caused nine to die in Dixie.
For shame, for shame, ashamed down South in Dixie.
For shame, for shame, ashamed down South in Dixie.

When tempers flare and times are trying
The “stars and bars” should not be flying
Go away, Go away Go away Dixie land.

In the very town the rebellion started
“Things must change!” say the Progressive minded
Go away, Go away, Go away Dixie land.



The Great grand kin of rebellious brothers
Have voted to strike down the colors
Look away, Look away, Look away Dixie land.

If this gets further out of hand
The “Dixie” cup will soon be banned!
Go away, Go away Go away Dixie land.

Way down South where they once grew cotton
Old times there must be forgotten
Go away, Go away Go away Dixie land.

I remember the flowers you wore in your hair
when you were my bride at nineteen.
Their bright colors kept all the dark clouds at bay
Or at least so it seemed then to me.

And their fragrance so rare drove some boys to despair
on the day that you married with me.
Your sweet song of youth left no need for a proof
Of how happy together we’d be.

I remember the flowers you held in your hands
On our tenth anniversary day;
Their bright colors kept all the dark clouds at bay
Or at least so it seemed then to me.

And their fragrance so rare drove some men to despair
to think that your hand wasn’t free.
The red blush of your lips as you turned for a kiss
Said no man was more happy than me.

I remember the rosary they placed in your hands
On the day that Death took you, I keened.
It seemed but a moment since you were my bride
And I was a groom of nineteen

All the flowers so rare that they piled on you bier
Both my sisters said they were lovely
I scarcely saw colors with eyes filled with tears
And the blooms held no fragrance for me.

I tend now the flowers that grow by your stone
Their fragrance reminds me of you.
I long for the day the Lord calls me away
And I’ll be reunited with you

I’ll admit that it was different, and something of a strain
When our troupe was performing “Hamlet: for the criminally insane.
It was some do gooder’s notion to expose them to the arts.
and I saw that they accepted it when boys played women’s parts.
Some Prisoners thought the ghost was real and they were sore afraid
Their minds could not distinguish it was just a role I played.
Each line meant to gain a laugh fell silent with that group,
But as the death toll mounted, they thought that was a hoot.
They were the strangest audience, those prisoners out there
When Hamlet mused on suicide, they’d hoped he’d end it there.
Poison, ******, suicide; they were thoroughly entertained!
To thunderous applause we bore Prince Hamlet from the stage.
The warden was so gratified the Bard was loved by all
That we’re performing Titus Andronicus for the prisoners this Fall.

A Pall of Civic Sorrow shrouded Charleston like a mist;
Nine bronze coffins in the church nave waiting to be blessed.
Anger would be natural, doesn’t violence beget more?
Is forgiveness even possible? Many were unsure.
The congregation gathered to pray and understand
in the place the murders happened; a church built by freedmen’s hands.

As they prayed about forgiveness, one shrill voice disagreed.
It cursed the “white man’s Jesus” and all those who bend the knee.
Stop praying to your “*****’s god” and burn the city down;
all those fine homes of brick and wood that stand in Charleston town.

With Faith comes understanding, wisdom denied to the proud.
There will be no wave of violence here, the congregation vowed.
Lord Jesus was not Black or White; his was a brown tanned hide.
He was in chains and felt the lash on the very day he died.

Love is neither slave nor free, as it appears to me.
It is with Love we live and breathe and have true dignity.
So let the White and Black join hands across the Charleston span;
Then we will not be White or Black but each Americans.

I am not a butterfly, their beauty I do not possess.
I am but a humble moth, but His creature nonetheless.
On this sultry summer's eve, for reasons I can only guess.
I'm captivated by the glow; your open flame has me impressed.
I'm like a bit of cosmic dust from the outer darkness come.
drawn inexorably to my doom, seduced  towards the fiery Sun.
I'm fascinated by your glow; see how you flicker and shift shapes!
Ever closer I draw near, Thought I fear it a mistake.
Beautiful the reds and golds, like a veiled dancer
you entice me on
I flare up like a dying star, you scarcely notice I have gone.

It always starts with a Woman;
a woman with skin like sweet milk chocolate.
A woman with a voice like warm honey on a cold dark night
And brown eyes in which a man might comfortably lose his soul.

The club was cold; not much of a club really;
A drafty old barn of a building somewhere in Arkansas
A big barrel half filled with Kerosene was lit to heat the hall.
The Young black folk of the town were gathered around

Young B.B. King was playing the blues, on a guitar with no name.
That was when the fight broke out on the dance floor.
two strong men doing battle over a woman who worked at the club.
It always starts with a woman.

Punches were exchanged; in the melee someone kicked over that barrel
And fire, like a river, roared across the floor.
Everybody started to run for the only open exit.
B.B. King ran too, until he recalled he had forgotten his guitar.

She was nothing special except for the man who played her
The man who coaxed sweet sad sounds from every catgut string.
King wasn’t a rich man and that guitar was his meal ticket
So he raced back through the flames.

Just as he retrieved his guitar, the building began
Its slow sad collapse into ash and embers
He barely escaped with his life and his guitar.

Standing outside in the cold night
Looking on the ruins of what had been a good paying gig.
That was when he met Lucille;
She was the barmaid with the sweet milk chocolate skin
And a voice like warm honey on a cold dark night;
Those two men had just fought and died over
a pleasure that neither would ever possess.

That was when B.B. King christened that old beat up guitar
“Lucille”:
To remind him of this night he almost died.
to remind him never to do something that stupid again.
Like I was saying, it always starts with a woman.

The reenactor looked a little warm in his woolen Union blues.
A forage cap perched on his head; spit and polished were his shoes.
He waited for the group to settle down, then gave his practiced speech
about how Sickles lost his leg in an orchard ripe with peach.
The air was still and warm as when, there, on the second day,
Sickles’ insubordination caused the Union lines to fray.
The great grandsons of the North and South were gathered here around.
The heirs of slaves and immigrants stood upon  the sacred ground.
We were not far from the spot Abe gave his famous speech;
where neat spaced rows of honored dead have learned to keep the peace.
Yet the hatreds of the past run deep, the events in Baltimore
Make me wonder if they died in vain; the soldiers from that war.