Come mothers and fathers, come sisters and brothers Lend an ear to the stories they’re telling
Of the neighborhood watchman in the Florida town who shot and killed Trayvon Martin
O, the time it was night and the evening was cold and the month it was late February
Trayvon Martin at only seventeen years old too young for an obituary
On his way back home from a convenience store through the yards of his neighbors was walkin
George Zimmerman spied him while making his rounds And made a call down to the station
“HQ, HQ,” Mr. Zimmerman said, “This is nightwatchman Zimmerman calling,
I have just spied a suspicious black male In our gated community walking—
“How shall I proceed? shall I make an arrest? Shall I follow and see where he takes me?
Could this be the man whom we’ve been looking for Who committed those robberies lately?”
“Well this is HQ,” the headquarters said, “To Nightwatchman Zimmerman calling,
Do not pursue—repeat—do not pursue, For you haven’t the grounds to suspect him.”
“Ten four, ten four,” Mr. Zimmerman said, But he pulled up to roll slowly by him,
And when the young man saw the slow police car He took off a fearfully runnin
“No grounds? No grounds?” Mr. Zimmerman thought “If there’s no grounds then why is he running?”
And quick as a flash he leapt out of his car Bringing his handgun with him
Well over a fence and through the back yards The armed nightwatchman chased Trayvon Martin
A distance in excess of one hundred yards Til he finally cornered and caught him
O down, O down to the ground they did fall The ground where they both had been standing
Trayvon to fight for his life gainst the man The man for to somehow subdue him
“Submit, submit!” Mr. Zimmerman cried “Submit and throw down your weapon!”
“I will not submit!” Trayvon Martin replied, “For I’m unarmed and I haven’t done nothing!”
And as the two fought on the ground in the dark A gunshot rang out clear as crystal
Trayvon Martin had been shot through the chest At close range by Zimmerman’s pistol
Come mothers and fathers, come sisters and brothers Lend an ear to the stories they’re telling
Of the neighborhood watchman in the Florida town Who shot and killed Trayvon Martin
For a day and a night the body went without name As he was when his mother had birthed him
Until a call came from his father at home Saying that his son had been missing
O down, o down to the morgue he was called To see if this was his son who’d been missing
“O, God, it’s him!” his bereaved father cried, “That’s the body of Trayvon Martin,”
“My son, my son, O Trayvon, my son—” His poor mother cried, nearly wild,
“He wasn’t no symbol, didn’t die for no cause, He was only my baby, my child,
“And what did he do? for what was he killed? For wearing dark clothes and a hoodie?
Is it just me or does it still feel Like it’s a crime to be black in this country?”
Well charges were pressed and a trial was set And a jury was formed all at random
And of the twelve who were chosen to serve, There wasn’t one black face among them
“The defendant, George Zimmerman,” the prosecution declared, “He is getting away here with murder,
How can you defend a defender of peace Who says shoot first and ask questions later?”
“Yes, that was my gun, I fired that round,” George Zimmerman finally admitted
But despite all the facts in the end he was found Not guilty and was fully acquitted
The defense lawyers claimed he had just stood his ground And no evidence showed the contrary
Trayvon Martin by then for more than a year Neath six feet of ground had lain buried
And for all you who say that here justice was done, Here is something for you to consider
When a white man shoots and unarmed black man to death They do not define it as murder
Come judges, come kings, come you counselors on down Who maintain the law’s fair and equal
Come look what they done in a florida town And say it would be the same for all people