[Verse 1]
Southern trees bear a strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the roots
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze
All their strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees

[Verse 2]
Pastoral scene of the gallant south
The bulging eyes and twisted mouth
The gentle scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh

[Verse 3]
Here is fruit for the crows to pluck
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck
For the sun, oh, for the sun to rot, for the trees to drop
Here is the strange and bitter crop

[Spoken Outro]
Lynchings, beatings, castrations, and more lynchings
It almost passes human understanding
How a people could be so socially despised and yet artistically esteemed
So degraded and yet culturally influential
So ostracized and yet a dominant editorial force in American life
Alain Locke, Harlem Renaissance