| Paul Robeson, he’s the man
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| That faced the Ku Klux Klan
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| On hollow grove’s golfing ground
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| His words come sounding
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| And all around him there
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| To jump and clap and cheer
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| I sent the best I had, the best I had
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| My thirty thousand
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| The Klansman leader said
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| That Paul would lose his head
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| When thirty five thousand vets
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| Broke up that concert
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| But less than four thousand came
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| To side with the Klan
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| But around Paul’s lonesome oak
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| My thirty thousand
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| A beersoaked brassy band
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| Did snortle round the grounds
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| Four hundred noblest souls
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| Westchester’s manhood
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| And they looked exactly like
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| The fleas on a tiger’s back
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| Lost fish in the waters of
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| My thirty thousand
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| When Paul had sung and gone
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| And the kids and babies home
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| Cops came with guns and clubs
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| And they clubbed and beat 'em
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| Well, I’d hate to be a cop
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| Caught with a bloody stick
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| 'Cause you can’t bash the brains
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| Out of thirty thousand
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| Each eye you tried to gouge
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| Each skull you tried to crack
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| Has a thousand, thousand friends
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| Around this green grass
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| If you furnish the skull someday
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| I’ll pass out the clubs and guns
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| To the billion hands that love
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| My thirty thousand
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| Each wrinkle on your face
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| I know it at a glance
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| You cannot run and hide
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| Nor duck nor dodge them
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| And your carcass and your deeds
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| Will fertilize the seeds
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| Of the men that stood to guard
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| My thirty thousand
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| Of the men that stood to guard
|
| My thirty thousand |