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  Jolly Roger

  Sea spray with an undercurrent of leather, Bay Rum, and salty, dry woods.

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• 

  Knucklebones Perfume Oil

  You hear a clatter on the ground behind you, and a small bleached bone smacks against your foot. Cloaked in shadows between the tents, three men crouch playing knucklebones. Distress clouds the face of one of the men, while another bursts into a wicked smile and the last one sighs in relief. Scooping up his winnings and shaking his head, the victor makes a soft ‘tsk’ noise as he reaches towards the loser’s chest, positioning his hand over the man’s heart. Pressing forward, his hand moves through cloth, flesh, muscle, and bone to extract the beating organ. Tossing the heart onto the ground, he says to you, “Mind handing me those bones, buddy? I’ve got a game to run here.”

  Black musk, bay rum, lime fougere, orange blossom water, gin, and tobacco.

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• 

  Let America Be America Again Perfume Oil

  Let America be America again.
  Let it be the dream it used to be.
  Let it be the pioneer on the plain
  Seeking a home where he himself is free.

  (America never was America to me.)

  Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed-
  Let it be that great strong land of love
  Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
  That any man be crushed by one above.

  (It never was America to me.)

  O, let my land be a land where Liberty
  Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
  But opportunity is real, and life is free,
  Equality is in the air we breathe.

  (There’s never been equality for me,
  Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

  Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
  And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

  I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
  I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
  I am the red man driven from the land,
  I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
  And finding only the same old stupid plan
  Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

  I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
  Tangled in that ancient endless chain
  Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
  Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
  Of work the men! Of take the pay!
  Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

  I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
  I am the worker sold to the machine.
  I am the Negro, servant to you all.
  I am the people, humble, hungry, mean-
  Hungry yet today despite the dream.
  Beaten yet today-O, Pioneers!
  I am the man who never got ahead,
  The poorest worker bartered through the years.

  Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
  In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
  Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
  That even yet its mighty daring sings
  In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
  That’s made America the land it has become.
  O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
  In search of what I meant to be my home-
  For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
  And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
  And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
  To build a “homeland of the free.”

  The free?

  Who said the free? Not me?
  Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
  The millions shot down when we strike?
  The millions who have nothing for our pay?
  For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
  And all the songs we’ve sung
  And all the hopes we’ve held
  And all the flags we’ve hung,
  The millions who have nothing for our pay-
  Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

  O, let America be America again-
  The land that never has been yet-
  And yet must be-the land where every man is free.
  The land that’s mine-the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME-
  Who made America,
  Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
  Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
  Must bring back our mighty dream again.

  Sure, call me any ugly name you choose-
  The steel of freedom does not stain.
  From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
  We must take back our land again,
  America!

  O, yes,
  I say it plain,
  America never was America to me,
  And yet I swear this oath-
  America will be!

  Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
  The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
  We, the people, must redeem
  The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
  The mountains and the endless plain-
  All, all the stretch of these great green states-
  And make America again!
  – Langston Hughes

  O, let America be America again – the land that never has been yet: waving green grasses, purple-hued amber, smoked sandalwood, bay rum, clove bud, cardamom, and black pepper.

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• 

  Jazz Funeral Perfume Oil

  Considered a great honor, this is one of the most distinguished aspects of New Orleans culture. Its roots lie in the customs of the Dahomeans and Yoruba people, and is a celebration of both the person’s life and the beauty and solemnity of their death. The procession is lead by the Grand Marshal, resplendent in his black tuxedo, white gloves and black hat in hand; almost a vision of the great Baron Samedi himself. The music begins with solemn, tolling dirges, moves into hymns of sorrow, loss and redemption. When the burial site is reached, a two-note preparatory riff is sounded, and the drummers start the second-line beat, heralding the switch in music to joyous, upbeat songs, dancing, and the unfurling of richly decorated umbrellas by the ‘second line’ friends, family, loved ones and stray celebrants. Strutting, bouncing, and festive dance accompanies the upbeat ragtime music that sends the departed soul onto its next journey.

  Didn’t he ramble
  … he rambled
  Rambled all around
  … in and out of town
  Didn’t he ramble
  … didn’t he ramble
  He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

  His feet was in the market place
  his head was in the street
  Lady pass him by, said
  look at the market meat
  He grabbed her pocket book
  and said I wish you well
  She pulled out a forty-five
  said I’m head of personnel.

  Didn’t he ramble
  … he rambled
  Rambled all around
  … in and out of town
  Didn’t he ramble
  … didn’t he ramble
  He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

  He slipped into the cat house
  made love to the stable
  Madam caught him cold
  said I’ll pay you when I be able
  Six months had passed
  and she stood all she could stand
  She said buddy when I’m through with you
  Ole groundhog gonna be shakin yo’ hand.

  Didn’t he ramble
  … he rambled
  Rambled all around
  … in and out of town
  Didn’t he ramble
  … didn’t he ramble
  He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

  I said he rambled
  lord
  … ’till the butcher shot him down.

  Bittersweet bay rum, bourbon, and a host of funeral flowers with a touch of graveyard dirt, magnolia and Spanish Moss.

  Select Options This product has multiple variants. The options may be chosen on the product page