| A bullet from the back of a bush took Medgar Evers' blood.
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| A finger fired the trigger to his name.
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| A handle hid out in the dark
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| A hand set the spark
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| Two eyes took the aim
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| Behind a man’s brain
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| But he can’t be blamed
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| He’s only a pawn in their game.
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| A South politician preaches to the poor white man,
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| «You got more than the blacks, don’t complain.
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| You’re better than them, you been born with white skin,"they explain.
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| And the Negro’s name
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| Is used it is plain
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| For the politician’s gain
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| As he rises to fame
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| And the poor white remains
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| On the caboose of the train
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| But it ain’t him to blame
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| He’s only a pawn in their game.
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| The deputy sheriffs, the soldiers, the governors get paid,
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| And the marshals and cops get the same,
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| But the poor white man’s used in the hands of them all like a tool.
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| He’s taught in his school
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| From the start by the rule
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| That the laws are with him
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| To protect his white skin
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| To keep up his hate
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| So he never thinks straight
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| 'Bout the shape that he’s in But it ain’t him to blame
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| He’s only a pawn in their game.
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| From the poverty shacks, he looks from the cracks to the tracks,
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| And the hoof beats pound in his brain.
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| And he’s taught how to walk in a pack
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| Shoot in the back
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| With his fist in a clinch
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| To hang and to lynch
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| To hide 'neath the hood
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| To kill with no pain
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| Like a dog on a chain
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| He ain’t got no name
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| But it ain’t him to blame
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| He’s only a pawn in their game.
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| Today, Medgar Evers was buried from the bullet he caught.
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| They lowered him down as a king.
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| But when the shadowy sun sets on the one
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| That fired the gun
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| He’ll see by his grave
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| On the stone that remains
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| Carved next to his name
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| His epitaph plain:
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| Only a pawn in their game. |