Tuesday’s Tune// Word Game by Stephen Stills. Would you knock a man down If you don’t like the cut of his clothes Could you put a man away If you don’t want to hear what he knows Well, it’s happening right here People dying of fear by the droves And I know most of you […]
Would you knock a man down If you don’t like the cut of his clothes Could you put a man away If you don’t want to hear what he knows Well, it’s happening right here People dying of fear by the droves
And I know most of you Either don’t believe it’s true Or else you don’t know what to do Or maybe I’m singing about you Who knows
It’s incredibly sick, you can feel it As across the land it flows Prejudice is slick when it’s a word game It festers and grows Move along quick, it furthers one To have somewhere to go
You can feel it as it’s rumblin’ Let emotions keep a tumblin’ Then as cities start to crumblin’ Mostly empty bellies grumblin’ Here we go
People see somebody different Fear is the first reaction shown Then they think they’ve got him licked The barbaric hunt begins and they move in slow A human spirit is devoured The remains left to carrion crow
I was told that life is change And yet history remains Does it always stay the same Do we shrug it off and say Only God knows
By and by somebody usually goes Down to the ghetto try and help But they don’t know why folks treat them cold And the rich keep getting richer And the rest of us just keep getting old
You see one must have a mission In order to be a good Christian If you don’t you will be missing High Mass or the evening show
And the well fed masters reap the harvests Of the polluted seeds they’ve sown Smug and self-righteous they bitch about people they owe And you can’t prove them wrong They’re so God damn sure they know
I have seen these things with my very own eyes And defended my battered soul It must be too tough to die American propaganda, South African lies Will not force me to take up arms, that’s my enemies’ pride
And I won’t fight by his rules that’s foolishness besides His ignorance is gonna do him in and nobody’s gonna cry Because his children they are growing up With bigots and their silver cups they’re fed up They might throw up on you
Alright, ooh
Stephen Stills, from his second solo album, Stephen Stills 2, 1971