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i. Praise Song for N***a
Ghost still pace Georgia, hungry
for babies, for husbands, for something
to un-open the back.
We know what music accompanies
the mob, the robe, the rope the pickup or the horse, the blade
across our dark root, the fire, the star spinning from a tree branch
was always
across our dark root, the fire, the star spinning from a tree branch
was always
Nigger—Black Nigger—Nigger
