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James A. Bland
B. 10.12.1854 Queens / D. 5.6.1911 Philadelphia

Carry me back to old Virginny,
There's where the cotton and the corn and tatoes grow,
There's where the birds warble sweet in the springtime,
There's where the old darke'ys heart am long'd to go,
Virginia—the great state that is—under patches however vast of spending cars rudeness excruciating voices sprawl you remain—for ever and ever—a leafy cradle rocked by tides. Your greens and blues compel solitude—and when I am alone in you Virginia, it is another womb holds me fast and full of possibilities.
There's where I labored so hard for old massa,
Day after day in the field of yellow corn,
No place on earth do I love more sincerely
Than old Virginny, the state where I was born.
Once a nation always a nation—Virginia, our France—I christen you. Sure you’re missing the Louvre and couture but you have the war dead, you have the liveried pair at the doors of the Williamstown Inn chiming “Welcome Home Ma’am.”
Carry me back to old Virginny,
There let me live 'till I wither and decay,
Long by the old Dismal Swamp have I wandered,
There's where this old darke'ys life will pass away.
(Dear Virginia, perhaps you belong to the dead—and to animals—and the rest of us are just lucky to be here, humming, inhaling, admiring—PS: Can’t beat your vistas for interest nor their inviting perpendicular detours for profusion.)
Massa and missis have long gone before me,
Soon we will meet on that bright and golden shore,
There we'll be happy and free from all sorrow,
There's where we'll meet and we'll never part no more.
Look at the full moon over you Virginia—as you fling up handkerchiefs of cloud through which the moon salutes your beauty—making the moon have to peek, pillowing its cheek on your flirtatious emanations—the heavens to your harem etiquette abasing.

Consolation Site: Prince

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