I was listening to an old Billie Holliday recording this evening and was struck by the imagery and sadness of the lyrics. STRANGE FRUIT Southern trees bear strange fruit, Blood on the leaves and blood at the root, Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze, Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees. Pastoral scene of the gallant south, The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth, Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh, Then the sudden smell of burning flesh. Here is fruit for the crows to pluck, For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck, For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop, Here is a strange and bitter crop.
The lyrics were a poem by a jewish guy named Abel Meeropol under then pseudonym of Lewis Allen. I think Meeropol was a schoolteacher. Holiday delivered them beautifully from obscurity to our minds.
