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Best Famous Uncle Tom Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Uncle Tom poems. This is a select list of the best famous Uncle Tom poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Uncle Tom poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of uncle tom poems.

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Written by John Lindley | Create an image from this poem

DARKIES

 “I’d rather make $700 a week playing a maid than earn $7 a day being a maid”.
Hattie McDaniel.
I’m the savage in the jungle and the busboy in the town.
I’m the one who jumps the highest when the Boss man comes around.
I’m the maid who wields the wooden broom.
I’m the black boot polish cheeks.
I’m the big fat Lawdy Mama who always laughs before she speaks.
I’m the plaintive sound of spirituals on the mighty Mississip’.
I’m the porter in the club car touching forelock for a tip.
I’m the bent, white-whiskered ol’ Black Joe with the stick and staggered walk.
I’m the barefoot boy in dungarees with a stammer in my talk.
I’m the storytelling Mr.
Bones with a jangling tambourine.
I’m the North’s excuse for novelty and the South’s deleted scene.
I’m the one who takes his lunch break with the extras and the grips.
I’m the funny liquorice coils of hair and the funny looking lips.
I’m the white wide eyes and pearly teeth.
I’m the jet black skin that shines.
I’m the soft-shoe shuffling Uncle Tom for your nickels and your dimes.
I’m the Alabami Mammy for a state I’ve never seen.
I’m the bona fide Minstrel Man whose blackface won’t wash clean.
I’m the banjo playing Sambo with a fixed and manic grin.
I’m the South’s defiant answer that the Yankees didn’t win.
I’m the inconvenient nigrah that no one can let go.
I’m the cutesy picaninny with my hair tied up in bows.
I’m the funny little shoeshine boy.
I’m the convict on the run; the ****** in the woodpile when the cotton pickin’s done.
I’m a blacklist in Kentucky.
I’m the night when hound dogs bay.
I’m the cut-price, easy light relief growing darker by the day.
I’m the “yessir, Massa, right away” that the audience so enjoys.
I’m the full-grown man of twenty-five but still they call me ‘boy’.
For I’m the myth in Griffith’s movie.
I’m the steamboat whistle’s cry.
I’m the dust of dead plantations and the proof of Lincoln’s lie.
I’m the skin upon the leg iron.
I’m the blood upon the club.
I’m the deep black stain you can’t erase no matter how you scrub.
John Lindley


Written by John Berryman | Create an image from this poem

Dream Song 60: Afters eight years be less dan eight percent

 Afters eight years, be less dan eight percent,
distinguish' friend, of coloured wif de whites
in de School, in de Souf.
—Is coloured gobs, is coloured officers, Mr Bones.
Dat's nuffin?—Uncle Tom, sweep shut yo mouf, is million blocking from de proper job, de fairest houses & de churches eben.
—You may be right, Friend Bones.
Indeed you is.
Defy flyin ober de world, de pilots, ober ofays.
Bit by bit our immemorial moans brown down to all dere moans.
I flees that, sah.
They brownin up to ourn.
Who gonna win? —I wouldn't predict.
But I do guess mos peoples gonna lose.
I never saw no pickle wifout no hand.
O my, without no hand.

Book: Shattered Sighs