A bullet from the back of a bush took Medgar Evers blood.
A finger fired the trigger to his name.
A handle hid out in the dark
A hand set the spark
Two eyes took the aim
Behind a man s brain
But he can t be blamed
He s only a pawn in their game.
A South politician preaches to the poor white man
"You got more than the blacksdon t complain.
You re better than themyou been born with white skin" they explain.
And the Negro s name
Is used it is plain
For the politician s gain
As he rises to fame
And the poor white remains
On the caboose of the train
But it ain t him to blame
He s only a pawn in their game.
The deputy sheriffsthe soldiersthe governors get paid
And the marshals and cops get the same
But the poor white man s used in the hands of them all like a tool.
He s taught in his school
From the start by the rule
That the laws are with him
To protect his white skin
To keep up his hate
So he never thinks straight
Bout the shape that he s in
But it ain t him to blame
He s only a pawn in their game.
From the poverty shackshe looks from the cracks to the tracks
And the hoof beats pound in his brain.
And he s taught how to walk in a pack
Shoot in the back
With his fist in a clinch
To hang and to lynch
To hide neath the hood
To kill with no pain
Like a dog on a chain
He ain t got no name
But it ain t him to blame
He s only a pawn in their game.
TodayMedgar Evers was buried from the bullet he caught.
They lowered him down as a king.
But when the shadowy sun sets on the one
That fired the gun
He ll see by his grave
On the stone that remains
Carved next to his name
His epitaph plain:
Only a pawn in their game.

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