Southern trees bear a strange fruit

Blood on the leaves, blood at the root

Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze

Strange fruit hanging from the poplar tree.



Pastoral scene of the gallant South

The bulging eyes, and the twisted mouth

Scent of magnolia, cool and fresh

And the smell of the burning flesh.



Here is the fruit for the crows to pluck

For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck

For the sun to rot, for a tree to drop

Here is a strange and bitter crop.



So strange

So strange