Cubes

In the days of the broken cubes of Picasso
And in the days of the broken songs of the young men
A little too drunk to sing
And the young women
A little too unsure of love to love—
I met on the boulevards of Paris
An African from Senegal.

God
Knows why the French
Amuse themselves bringing to Paris
Negroes from Senegal.

It’s the old game of the boss and the bossed,
   boss and the bossed,
      amused
         and
      amusing,
   worked and working,
Behind the cubes of black and white,
            black and white,
    black and white
But since it is the old game,
For fun
They give him the three old prostitutes of
      France—
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity—
And all three of ’em sick
In spite of the tax to the government
And the legal houses
And the doctors
And the Marseillaise.

Of course, the young African from Senegal
Carries back from Paris
A little more disease
To spread among the black girls in the palm huts.
He brings them as a gift
     disease—
From light to darkness
          disease—
From the boss to the bossed
               disease—
From the game of black and white
   disease
From the city of the broken cubes of Picasso
      d
         i
      s
   e
      a
         s
      e