Under The Locusts Poem by John Crowe Ransom

What do the old men say,
Sitting out of the sun?
Many strange and common things,
And so would any one.


Locust trees are sorry shade,
They are good enough;
Locust trees are sweet in spring
For trees so old and tough.


Dick's a sturdy little lad
Yonder throwing stones;
Agues and rheumatic pains
Will fiddle on his bones.


Grinny Bob is out again
Begging for a dime;
Niggers haven't any souls,
Grinning all the time.


Jenny and Will go arm in arm.
He's a lucky fellow;
Jenny's checks are pink as rose,
Her mother's cheeks are yellow.


War is on, the paper says,
Wounds and enemies;
Now young gallivanting bucks
Will know what trouble is.


Parson's coming up the hill,
Meaning mighty well;
Thinks he's preached the doubters down.
And old men never tell.