by Langston Hughes

Let all who will

Eat quietly the bread of shame.

I cannot,

Without complaining loud and long,

Tasting its bitterness in my throat,

And feeling to my very soul

It’s wrong.

For honest work

You Proffer me poor pay,

For honest dreams

Your spit is in my face,

And so my fist is clenched

Today—

To strike your face.

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    once again, LH saves the day.

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