The Blues Of Color

They shuffle up the stairs In a line like prisoners Their heads hung low As they walk in a single row. “To the back of the bus,” he says. But they already know, For some reason he still likes to tell them where to go. So they shuffle on back, Just to grab a seat. Only to give it up, For someone who looks a little more neat. “Back of the bus,” he says again, And they can’t help but notice his grin. The urge to defy is strong, But they don’t want any trouble. So they rise up, And start to shuffle. Until one day, A certain woman took a seat. She was tired, And needed to rest her feet. Right up front she sat, She was tired of the back. They told her where to go to, Like she was some unnatural shade of blue. “To the back,” they said. But she didn’t move, She had something to prove. Color made no difference. We were all the same. So why were they the ones in chains. “Back of the bus,” he said again But she stayed in her seat, Refusing to shuffle her feet. She wasn’t the only one, The movement had only just begun. Generation after generation, Others have marched to their own beat. Speaking their rights in truth And making their own seats. Parks may have been the start, But the X made is mark all over text. And the King made their voices sing. As his words made the world ring, With equality and defiance. He had it all down to a simple science. No longer were they blue. Those times were through.