Lament For A Lost Word

When I was young, twenty-two,

and better in many ways than now,

I married a pretty Colored girl, Delores.

Her brother, Arthur, was Colored too,

and lived with a White woman named Jan.

The four of us went out dancing often. 

This was in Illinois.

We had the NAACP

that was led by Martin Luther King,

and the CP stood for Colored People.

Joe Louis had been a Colored fighter.

My wife’s father's name was Daddy,

Black as coffee and about three times

the size of his Mrs. whom we called Mama,

a very popular name at the time. 

She was a light chocolate tone.

Both were OK with ‘Colored.’

This is to lament the loss of a word

that to me sounded lovely, and still does.

Now you're required to say, ‘of Color,’

which, to my ear, sounds daft.