Lesson One
Son
I love you
That’s why I’m telling you this
To protect you
You’re a black boy
I can only give you advice on this
I’m sorry
That I have to tell you about mirandas
Instead of reading you bedtime stories
I’m sorry
I have to read you your rights
Before saying goodnight
The police are supposed to be
Our neighborhood watch
Zimmerman might have a
Badge this time
Behind the voice
In his head saying
It’s okay to
Pull the trigger
I’m only standing my ground
We watch them as they watch us
Caught in a never ending staring contest
Watching pupils, with intensity
Of his next move
With his finger on the trigger
Son
I’m gonna tell it like it is
Your skin
Makes you a target
In the United States
In a shooting gallery
Where targets aren’t
Red circles
But black dots
Son
You’re a black dot
My black dot
In this shooting gallery
I have to keep you safe
Your hand is just as close
To your wallet
As theirs to their holsters
Move slowly
Arms
Handcuffs
Holster
They expect you to make a mistake
Don’t smile, they might think you’re lying
Don’t sweat they might think you’re nervous
Nervous means guilty
Guilty means cuffs
And Miranda before bedtime stories
Now I lay me down to sleep
You have the right to remain silent
I pray the lord my soul to keep
Anything you say can will be used against you
And if I die before I wake
You have the right to an attorney
I pray the lord my soul to take
We live in a world
Where the people
Should be protecting us
But they take us off the world
As much as they keep us on it
The battle is center stage
Innocent Amadou Diallo
41 shots
Innocent Sean Bell
50 shots
Innocent Flint Farmer
16 shots
Innocent
Black men will always be lynched
But they stop using ropes
A long time ago
Oscar Gant
1 shot
Innocent
He was supposed to take his daughter to Chuck E. Cheese
He was riding the train home
The police pulled him and his boys off the train
And put a hole in his back
I wish you still treasured the
1st amendment like you do the second
We re-pin Chicago
As the center of
A shooting gallery
Called the United States
Revolution is open caskets
I hear too many church bells
Calling for dead bodies
Arms
Handcuffs
Holster
Arms
Handcuffs
Holster
Son, promise me
You’ll never have to dance
To that beat