They moved into the Pearson shack
with just one son and he was black
Pinch chased him cross the railroad track
we yelled at him, don't ever come back
He tried to be our shadow, he wasn't one of us

Spike said he looked like shiny coal
and skinny as a telephone pole.
Folks said our meanness took its toll
and forced on us a mourners role,
all suicides are bad though, he wasn't one of us.

The funeral, was grand in style,
his casket lined with golden faille
that softly held this chaste exile
from southern hate and white man's guile.
You could not see his shadow, he wasn't one of us.

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