A score and half a dozen nights,
O'er August's eve.
One man in a courtroom,
His darkened skin his crime.
He would be given a fair trial,
Or so the law decreed.
But in the secret courts of men,
There was no case to see.
So he would struggle for his rights,
With calm collected fury.
As his attorney with conviction,
Swore to set him free.
The two would take the stage,
Present the truth with polished sheen.
But prejudice can cloud the eyes,
Innocent's luster would not be seen.
Doomed by his own flesh,
As ordered by the court.
The avatar of impartiality,
Stood blinded by their white.
Now the black man would stand tired,
Laid low by his plight.
He'd never been a gambling man,
But now he'd bet his life.
The fence was hardly close,
It mattered not to him.
Tom Robinson would run,
And let bullets cut him down.
And when the news broke out,
The blind would tip their hats.
Praising the white gunmen,
For their well placed shots.
Some would cry for loved ones lost,
While others still would weep.
And some would see with clarity,
Just how it should've been.
But it mattered not for Tom was dead,
Long before his trial.
A black man against a white girls word?
Her scream was the judgment bell.