They fitted me up just because I’m black;
I didn’t shoot Dan Faulkner in the back;
It isn’t my fault the poor pig is dead,
It weren’t my gun blew off his fucking head.
It’s all a racist plot, a rotten fix,
That’s how those Philly rozzers get their kicks,
My brother knows what happened, he was there,
He’ll vouch that it was someone else, I swear.
It was Ken Freeman, Arnold Bever-ly,
A phantom shooter, anyone but me,
Perhaps Faulkner was rubbed out by the mob,
Or cut down by a copper-hating yob.
Yes, it was my gun they found at the scene,
But just what do those spent cartridges mean?
The shouted boast they heard at A&E,
I don’t dispute that, but it wasn’t me.
And what about the judge - let’s fry the Nigger,
Did Sabo really use that phrase? Go figure!
My lawyers and supporters keep on trying
To win my freedom with their shameless lying.
A quarter of a century and more,
They’ve stopped Old Sparky but my cell block door
Remains locked, and my freedom doesn’t loom,
So I remain here scribbling in the gloom.
But on the bright side, if I hadn’t done
The thing they claim I did, I’d be no one
Of any consequence – unlike today,
Who says crime, even murder, doesn’t pay?
September 27, 2009
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