Alexander’s Real Slow Drag

Berlin v. Joplin
Two years or so ago,	I heard my kidnapped tune
when Alexander’s Ragtime Band was	ramblin’ drunk all through Tin Pan Alley.
a big hit,	Then, I heard
someone started the report	‘bout the minstrel leer it wore
among the publishers	smeared with burnt cork. I know
that I had paid	ragtime’s cost—it’s
a	bright
negro	treasure . . .
ten dollars	ain’t no price
for it	I’d take . . .
and then
	. . . I’d just
published it under my own name.	had the chance to name it: Real Slow Drag.
When they told me about it,	I ‘spected Berlin was the thief—
I asked them to tell me	—and was right: I knew whom
from whom	to blame.
I had bought my other successes—	Straight from my gut, I’d made other hits,
twenty-five or thirty of them.	but this one was my dusky gem.
And I wanted to know,
	Why can’t some folk handle
if a negro could write	tunes as good as my own
Alexander,	—and not steal? Me?
why couldn’t I?	I refuse to thieve.
Then I told them	That thief thinks that
if they could produce the negro	music, it’s slick as Black gold. . .
and he had another hit	. . . from me. Wants my colored sound,
like Alexander in his system,	his soul corked charcoal, skin stayed white.
I would choke it out of him	If I could—I’d stain him brown,
and give him	naps on top,
twenty-thousand dollars	royalties damned to hell
in the bargain.
	. . . then I’d ask him:
If the other fellow deserves the credit,
why doesn’t he just go get it?

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