Southern trees
barin' strange fruit,
blood on the leaves,
and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
strange fruit hangin' from the poplar trees,
pastoral scene,
of the gallant south,
in big bulgin' eyes and the twisted mouth,
scent of magnolia,
clean and fresh,
then the sudden smell of burnin' flesh,

Here is a fruit, for the crows to pluck,
for the rain to gather,
for the wind to suck,
for the s-u-u-u-n to rot,
for the leeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaves to drop,
here is a strange and bitter crop.