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THE MAROON TIGER Page 17 CLOTHES What are clothes? What part do they play in life? Clothes, merely give one a place in society. Clothes are kin to drink. While drink influences the body, Clothes damn the soul. Clothes, it is always, always clothes— Wherever you go, wherever you stand You perceive people buying clothes. Some go to jail, some are enslaved For what we know, as clothes. Happy is the man unknown to clothes. The hypocrisy and artificiality of man, A brother to birds the beasts and nature, And not a slave to the disdainful clothes. Life is an uncertain vacation, Perchance, for a year or more, Into this dream we were ushered nude As such are we scheduled to depart. Yet. what a price, we pay for clothes. Clothes, 0 Dear God! What an enemy is clothes. They contaminate the morals ol man, We kill, we destroy our mortal souls We pollute, we befoul God’s code of laws For what we know, as clothes. All this to gain a station in life: The admiration of man, The pomposity, the vanities of this wicked world, The inglorious joys of life. For what a price—clothes, clothes. On far away Africa where clothes are strange There dwell what’s known as a savage race, They know not God, nor pray to Him; Yet God is seen in everything. There are no clothes, no clothes. The most gorgeous clothes in all the world Are the clothes that are unseen. These clothes are wrought by the hand of God Over which no man controls. These clothes I speak cost not a dime; We call these clothes, the soul. Oh! speak not of your clothes, my fair Chrystine, Nor of your mean apparel. I see, and yet, mine eyes are blind To what man prices so high, Clothes, clothes, clothes. Draw near to me, oh, mate of mine, And let me hear of the unseen, Your unblemished, exquisite soul, That magnifies virtue and truth, The clothes of God, our King, the soul. —Preston D. Show. “Ghe^win the DIE ANSICHTE Brown womb swelling Sore and telling. Brown babe cries; Cause witch-wench humming a song Cares not if it dies. And that is the way my people are born. Thick lips spreading In laughter that is catching. Brown feet beat upon the sand. In happy tatoo, the glee Of a few years’ happiness in “promised lan’ ” And that is the way my people play. Brown brows wet with sweat, Muscles tearing with a threat. Singing songs of the soul, Songs of toil and strife, That can be traced to Israel’s fold And that is the way my people work. Hi-de-hi-de-ho. “C’mon babe let’s go,” Dark lights blue and low. No breath of air can escape between, So Brown boy sighs as he feels warmth Of his brown queen. And that is the way my people love while dancing. No wince of Pain As fate crushes him though in vain. Brown face turned toward the sun. All ti ace of life is gone. A race is finished, yet not won. And that is the way my people die. —John H. Young. TO MY MOTHER I wrote a poem, 0 so true— Each line brings me bliss; 1 dedicate it to you And it reads like this; Mother, Mother, dear. I have found consolation And a sweet heavenly joy In the pleasurable Time spent, dear, With you. Forget? Never you, ’Cause you are my Star, An’ everything that’s dear Brings me nothing but sweet Memories. Of you. —S. Wycliffe Garlington, ’34.