I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something seems to lack; The Past is too much with her, and the people looking back.

Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air; And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair; And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great …

Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me! I want a ship that's westward bound to plow the rolling sea, To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the…

For ever so our thoughtful hearts repeat On fields of triumph dirges of defeat; And still we turn on gala-days to tread Among the rustling memories of the dead.

They oughtta change Black History Month to Black Progress Month and start measuring it.

At least the Pilgrim Fathers used to shoot Indians: the Pilgrim Children merely punch time clocks.

Let us speak of our madness. We are always being called mad. If we are mad - we and our brothers in America who are walking hand in hand with us in the vanguar…