Southern trees
bear a strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves
and blood at the root,
Black body 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,
And the sudden smell
of burning flesh.

Here is a fruit for
the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather,
for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot,
for the tree to drop,
Here is a strange
and bitter crop.