Like coffee was his skin,
His eyes were dark and fine
Needles in his curly hair
From the tall, tall Carolina Pines.

At sixteen I was told
Stick to your own kind,
And stay away from the brown-skinned boy
And the tall, tall Carolina Pines.

Still we met everyday,
Near the old tobacco sign
And we'd chew grass and tell our dreams
'Neath the tall, tall Carolina Pines.

The wind still, blows in the trees
The sun and moon still shine,
And white men still lynch honest black men
In the tall, tall Carolina Pines.

The tore him from my arms,
And with their rope of twine
They hanged him from the strongest branch
Of the tall, tall Carolina Pines.

Well, I left for Detroit,
I took only what was mine.
And I never will go back again
To the tall, tall Carolina Pines.

Now it's been fifty years,
But as I write these lines
I see him hanging once again
From the tall, tall Carolina Pines.

© 1986 Kim Wallach

(Note: this came to me while I was driving through the Carolinas. I don't know why, and find it a little frightening. Thanks to Joyce Woodson & Kristina Olsen & David Roth for help in editing.)