The Shots Rang Loud, But

Here lies our teacher, Our leader, our preacher, Born somehow both a peasant and a King. He died in a hotel in south Tennessee. The shots rang loud but dreams ring louder. And here’s our dear sergeant, A student, the target, Of insults and hatred and a man with a gun. Evers lies forever underground in Arlington. The shots rang loud but hope rings louder. And here’s our dear singer, Our lover, our dreamer, Who spoke like the King but gave it a beat. He bled out slowly on the side of the street. The shots rang loud but love rings louder If there is someone there to listen.