words and music by Lewis Allen 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
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