I got the Waxahachie, Texas blues,
the colored schoolhouse, washtub, weevil blues,
a laundress has just one young life to lose,
I pound down on the clothes and soap them clean,
rinse out those piles of clothes and wring them clean,
I’m tenth of thirteen children, yes, thirteen.
Study some math at Colored Normal U.,
I love the math at Colored Normal U.
Run out of cash. Quit school. Try something new?
I long for flying lessons to lift me in the air,
I pray for flying lessons high up in the air,
God built no segregated space up there.
Give me lessons, I’ll wing across the sky,
flying lessons, I’ll cruise right through the sky,
God made no white supremacy on high.
Oh, Bessie, pilots tell me, no can do,
lessons, white men tell me, no can do.
Defender asks, Bess Coleman, parlez-vous?
And now New York and Coronado Bay,
Chicago, Kansas City, and LA—
and even Waxahachie—want to pay
to see me climb, and spin, and launch a loop,
to watch me roar above their heads and loop,
to see me grin a grin and whoop a whoop,
though I won’t fly a Texas show unless,
no, I won’t fly a hometown show unless
White Only signs come down before Queen Bess.
A pilot’s got just one short life to lose,
A woman’s got just one short life to choose.