Lyrics
She washed her hands 300 times
But still they're dripping red
We caught her in the pauper's pit
She stole the prince's head
Cursing 'blasphemy' o mercy me
He staggered like a chicken

They lynched him they left him flinching
Running scared
Took their seatsthey kept on knitting

God bless the noble savage as he swaggers
As he sweats he's making bets on who is next
He don't care about the colour

So many here to choose from

(First they rounded up the reds
But I'm not red so

Then they rounded up the blacks
But I'm not black so

Then they rounded up the gypsies
And the junkies and donkeys

Now I'm scared to whistle 'swanee'
'Cause they'll ask me for my spit)

It's the garden that we walk in
And it's dyingso we cut it down
We're drowning now there's no way out
We all fall down

Copyright: Warner Chappell Music, Inc.
Writer(s): FRANK N. WILDHORN, NAN KNIGHTON




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