He was in the uniform of Uncle Sam, Just home from service in a foreign land. Hitler was dead, but not that Ol' Jim Crow. So to the back of the bus he had to go. At a stop in a sleepy South Carolina town The police chief and his boys came around They dragged that soldier out into the night And beat him 'til they'd robbed him of his sight.
I think about that uniform he wore A mother's son off fighting in a war. To save another people from hateful tyranny, And coming home to find that he still wasn't free.
They threw him in the jail and took his pay. Didn't bring a doctor in for two whole days. Three weeks had passed before his family knew The horrible ordeal he had been through. But that police chief still held his head up high, Acquitted by a jury that was all white. In some sick way, maybe he felt justified. His bitter hatred cloaked in a madman's shameful pride.
And I think about that uniform he wore, A vow to protect he violently ignored. They say that cop went on to live a long, long life. I pray he dreamed each night of Isaac Woodard's eyes.
'Cause I think about that uniform he wore A mother's son off fighting in a war He helped defend his nation from a fearful enemy And came home to find that he still wasn't free. He came home to find that he still wasn't free.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
