Southern trees bear a strange fruit,
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Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
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Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
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Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
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Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
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The big bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
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Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
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Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.
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Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck,
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For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
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For the sun to rot, for the leafs to drop,
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Here is a strange and bitter crop.
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Strange Fruit
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| Joe Bonamassa |
