Slight Was The Thing I Bought, Small

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Ah Me, When His Wing Is Bruised And His Bosom Sore,- When He Beats His Bars And Would Be Free; It Is Not A Carol Of Joy Or Glee, But A Prayer That He Sends From His Heart's Deep Core, But A Plea, That Upward To Heaven He Flings- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings!

People Are Taking It For Granted That [the Negro] Ought Not To Work With His Head. And It Is So Easy For These People Among Whom We Are Living To Believe This; It Flatters And Satisfies Their Self-complacency.

It's All A Farce, - These Tales They Tell About The Breezes Sighing, And Moans Astir O'er Field And Dell, Because The Year Is Dying.

We Wear The Mask That Grins And Lies.

But A Prayer That He Sends From His Heart's Deep Core.