| He was running down the street
|
| When they shot him in his tracks
|
| About the only thing agreed upon
|
| Is he ain’t coming back
|
| There won’t be any trial
|
| So the air it won’t be cleared
|
| There’s just two sides calling names
|
| Out of anger out of fear
|
| If you say it wasn’t racial
|
| When they shot him in his tracks
|
| Well I guess that means that you ain’t black
|
| It means that you ain’t black
|
| I mean Barack Obama won
|
| And you can choose where to eat
|
| But you don’t see too many white kids lying
|
| Bleeding on the street
|
| In some town in Missouri
|
| But it could be anywhere
|
| It could be right here on Ruth Street
|
| In fact it’s happened here
|
| And it happened where you’re sitting
|
| Wherever that might be
|
| And it happened last weekend
|
| And it will happen again next week
|
| And when they turned him over
|
| They were surprised there was no gun
|
| I mean he must have done something
|
| Or else why would he have run
|
| And they’ll spin it for the anchors
|
| On the television screen
|
| So we can shrug and let it happen
|
| Without asking what it means
|
| What it means?
|
| What it means?
|
| Then I guess there was protesting
|
| And some looting in some stores
|
| And someone was reminded that
|
| They ain’t called colored folks no more
|
| I mean we try to be politically
|
| Correct when we call names
|
| But what’s the point of post-racial
|
| When old prejudice remains?
|
| And that guy who killed that kid
|
| Down in Florida standing ground
|
| Is free to beat up on his girlfriend
|
| And wave his brand new gun around
|
| While some kid is dead and buried
|
| And laying in the ground
|
| With a pocket full of Skittles
|
| What it means?
|
| What it means?
|
| Astrophysics at our fingertips
|
| And we’re standing at the summit
|
| And some man with a joystick
|
| Lands a rocket on a comet
|
| We’re living in an age
|
| Where limitations are forgotten
|
| The outer edges move and dazzle us
|
| But the core is something rotten
|
| And we’re standing on the precipice
|
| Of prejudice and fear
|
| We trust science just as long
|
| As it tells us what we want to hear
|
| We want our truths all fair and balanced
|
| As long as our notions lie within it
|
| There’s no sunlight in our asses
|
| And our heads are stuck up in it
|
| And our heroes may be rapists
|
| Who watch us while we dream
|
| But don’t look to me for answers
|
| 'Cause I don’t know what it means
|
| What it means?
|
| What it means??? |