A bullet from the back of a bush took Medgar Evers' blood.   A finger fired the trigger to his name.   A handle hid out in the dark   A hand set the spark   Two eyes took the aim   Behind a man's brain   But he can't be blamed   He's only a pawn in their game.      A South politician preaches to the poor white man,   "You got more than the blacks, don't complain.   You're better than them, you been born with white skin," they explain.   And the Negro's name   Is used it is plain   For the politician's gain   As he rises to fame   And the poor white remains   On the caboose of the train   But it ain't him to blame   He's only a pawn in their game.      The deputy sheriffs, the soldiers, the governors get paid,   And the marshals and cops get the same,   But the poor white man's used in the hands of them all like a tool.   He's taught in his school   From the start by the rule   That the laws are with him   To protect his white skin   To keep up his hate   So he never thinks straight   'Bout the shape that he's in   But it ain't him to blame   He's only a pawn in their game.      From the poverty shacks, he looks from the cracks to the tracks,   And the hoof beats pound in his brain.   And he's taught how to walk in a pack   Shoot in the back   With his fist in a clinch   To hang and to lynch   To hide 'neath the hood   To kill with no pain   Like a dog on a chain   He ain't got no name   But it ain't him to blame   He's only a pawn in their game.      Today, Medgar Evers was buried from the bullet he caught.   They lowered him down as a king.   But when the shadowy sun sets on the one   That fired the gun   He'll see by his grave   On the stone that remains   Carved next to his name   His epitaph plain:   Only a pawn in their game.