My Head Was Full Of Misty Fumes

There Is Something About Poverty That Smells Like Death.

Anybody Depending On Somebody Else's Gods Is Depending On A Fox Not To Eat Chickens.

I Do Not Share The Gloomy Thought That Negroes In America Are Doomed To Be Stomped Out Bodaciously, Nor Even Shackled To The Bottom Of Things. Of Course Some Of Them Will Be Tromped Out, And Some Will Always Be At The Bottom, Keeping Company With Other Bottom-folks.

I Did Not Just Fall In Love. I Made A Parachute Jump.

But As De Old Folk Always Say, Ah'm Born But Ah Ain't Dead. No Tellin' Whut Ah'm Liable Tuh Do Yet.