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Saturdays Child

 Some are teethed on a silver spoon,
With the stars strung for a rattle;
I cut my teeth as the black racoon--
For implements of battle.
Some are swaddled in silk and down, And heralded by a star; They swathed my limbs in a sackcloth gown On a night that was black as tar.
For some, godfather and goddame The opulent fairies be; Dame Poverty gave me my name, And Pain godfathered me.
For I was born on Saturday-- "Bad time for planting a seed," Was all my father had to say, And, "One mouth more to feed.
" Death cut the strings that gave me life, And handed me to Sorrow, The only kind of middle wife My folks could beg or borrow.

by Countee Cullen
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