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Trumpet Player OG
par
Langston Hughes
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The Negro With the trumpet at his lips Has dark moons of weariness Beneath his eyes where the smoldering memory of slave ships Blazed to the crack of whips about thighs The negro with the trumpet at his lips has a head of vibrant hair tamed down, patent-leathered now until it gleams like jet- were jet a crown the music from the trumpet at his lips is honey mixed with liquid fire the rhythm from the trumpet at his lips is ecstasy distilled from old desire-
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