They fitted me up just because Iím black;
I didnít shoot Dan Faulkner in the back;
It isnít my fault the poor pig is dead,
It werenít my gun blew off his fucking head.
Itís all a racist plot, a rotten fix,
Thatís how those Philly rozzers get their kicks,
My brother knows what happened, he was there,
Heíll 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 donít dispute that, but it wasnít me.
And what about the judge - letís 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,
Theyíve stopped Old Sparky but my cell block door
Remains locked, and my freedom doesnít loom,
So I remain here scribbling in the gloom.
But on the bright side, if I hadnít done
The thing they claim I did, Iíd be no one
Of any consequence - unlike today,
Who says crime, even murder, doesnít pay?
September 27, 2009
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