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 Mardi Gras Indians I’m no Spy Boy for the Wild Squatoolas, But I’ve heard all the gods of Africa Strike back in a saxophone, and I’ve seen The black tribes fire out From the shotgun houses of Valence Street, That day before the ashes smeared Dark and soft on our sins. They flare In their savage satin like the brass beat Of a tambourine, arms dripping old fringe Ripped from a lampshade, sequins aflame And rhinestones blinding the breast, A plunge of plumes in a drop crown, and everything Gaudy with gilt and glitter and glue. O it’s Mighty Kooti Fiyo, it’s Two-Way Pocky Way, when Big Chief Jolley Swanks up in a cayenne suit. He’s got A Choctaw cheekbone and a Congo jaw. He’s got the good foot pumping like The pedal on a boomboom drum. Somebody Hand him a fatmouth beer and let The voodoo loose, the second line kick in Like a warclub on a skull marimba. I’m no Flag Boy for the Wild Tchoupitoulas, But I can feel the bloodrun of their strut Free me to the streets, to the powwow Spiked with feathers and a boozy whoop, As the day bows down to their red bravado. ...

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