Dem Bones


dem bones, dem bones
dem old cold bones beat the bread the rising bread

and white flour knuckles make the heart chill dread

Milk skeleton bobbin’ her bald little head
Jigglin’ and shakin’
Ah, law’ what she bakin’?

That dead pan bread needs a whole lotta making!
She scrimp eh’ she scrape,
she make he a dead man cake
and she sing and she rubs
for da one dat she loves.

dem bones, dem bones sound like some teaky-teaky chimes

She turns and she molds and her moans cling to the high.
Just quivering and pushing all her memories in a bun,
a squeeze of a little orange
and the bone work is done.
Then the heat of a lover bakes
the bread in the oven
and a little sweet roll is a head of its own.

dem bones, dem bones clatter down to the grave
and make a whole year’s wait with a bun on a plate

Then to a little black place, so she can see her lover’s face
and she weeps real good for all dat should.
And dem bones mingle on ‘til the highlight of da morn
and she sing this little song to the lover in her arms

dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones
dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones
dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones
dem bones are gonna rise!

-A.P. Stone