Carry us, Black Warrior, through hushed thickets,

holy mounds, sun-blazed fields,

dead-white seas of cotton,

the black fog of the mills,

the oil-slicked, deep-stained Gulf,

so we can know and trust and feel

from whom all of our blessings flow,

Mvskoke saints facing mechanized

conquistadors and privatized troops,

defending land and old souls

from the priests and the suits.

Tallassee, Tallahassee, Tulsa.

Freedom is a holy old town

that moves down a mean, snaky road.

Black rebels gripping microphones,

fountain pens, AKs, and cane knives,

the barons hiding behind

white hoods and redlines,

hissing lies to sunburnt rabble

holding bullwhips and 9’s,

drums in the streets and swamps growing loud,

from tent villages, red-brick projects,

dusty co-ops, secret freedom schools,

Igbo poets, Bantu scholars,

rebel peasants of British rule,

to white mansions and glass towers,

bankers and Big Mules,

peeking through the blinds at the churning crowd,

rising up like a mighty cloud

of old-time folks.

Old-time folks.

Old-time folks.

Old-time folks.

Cherokee and Mayan survivors

banging on Appalachian prison bars,

Communist lawyers and sharecroppers

parting courthouse lynch mobs,

queer angels and prophetesses

walking and talking with God—

bush-arbor, street-corner, briar patch.

Downtown moaning sub-bass

invocations, sanctified blues of

conjure women, Greek priests,

Muslim MC’s, down-home Jews,

their eyes flashing gentle and wild among the blooms

of teargas, gun smoke, and coal-ash.

Child, the Lord don’t make no trash—

just old-time folks.

Old-time folks.

We’re just old-time folks.

We’re old-time folks.

We ain’t machines.

We ain’t monsters.

We ain’t numbers.

We’ve got names.

This ain’t a brand.

This ain’t a look.

This ain’t content.

It’s stories.

We’re all stories.

We’re old-time folks.

We’re old-time folks.

We’re old-time.

We’re old-time folks.