“White folks is white,” says uncle Jim; “A platitude,” I sneer;
And then I tell him so is milk,
And the froth upon his beer.
His heart walled up with bitterness,
He smokes his pungent pipe,
And nods at me as if to say, “Young fool, you’ll soon be ripe!” I have a friend who eats his heart Always with grief of mine,
Who drinks my joy as tipplers drain Deep goblets filled with wine.
I wonder why here at his side,
Face-in-the-grass with him,
My mind should stray the Grecian urn To muse on uncle Jim.
