The years speed by,
Like ghastly floating clouds,
As Tempests brew,
In The Wink of God's eyes.
While Mr. Langston Hughes
in his two-room suite
comfy in his crib,
in his Italianate brownstone cries:
"I tire so of hearing people say,
Let things take their course.
Tomorrow is another day.
I do not need my freedom when I'm dead.
I cannot live on tomorrow's bread."
As thousands riot in Harlem,
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