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gwendolyn brooks - riot lyrics

john cabot, out of wilma, once a wycliffe
all whitebluerose below his golden hair
wrapped richly in right linen and right wool
almost forgot his jaguar and lake bluff;
almost forgot grandtully (which is the
best thing that ever happened to scotch); almost
forgot the sculpture at the richard gray
and distelheim; the kidney pie at maxim’s
the grenadine de boeuf at maison henri

because the negroes were coming down the street

because the poor were sweaty and unpretty
(not like two dainty negroes in winnetka)
and they were coming toward him in rough ranks
in seas. in windsweep. they were black and loud
and not detainable. and not discreet

gross. gross. “que tu es grossier!” john cabot
itched instantly beneath the nourished white
that told his story of glory to the world
“don’t let it touch me! the blackness! lord!” he whispered
to any handy angel in the sky
but, in a thrilling announcement, on it drove
and breathed on him: and touched him. in that breath
the fume of pig foot, chitterling and cheap chili
malign, mocked john. and, in terrific touch, old
averted doubt jerked forward decently
cried, “cabot! john! you are a desperate man
and the desperate die expensively today.”
john cabot went down in the smoke and fire
and broken glass and blood, and he cried “lord!
forgive these n+gguhs that know not what they do.”

- gwendolyn brooks lyrics

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