Текст: Tori Amos. Strange Fruit.

Hum... Yes, a little, hum, hu-hum... hahm...
Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves, an' blood at the root.
Black bodies swingin' in the Southern breeze.
Strange fruit hangin' from the Poplar trees.
Pastoral scene of the gallant South,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
The scent of magnolia, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.
Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange an' bitter crop...