A bullet from the back of the bush
Took Medgar Evers' blood
A finger fired the trigger to his name
A handle hid out in the dark
A hand set the spark
Behind the man's brain
But he can't be blamed
He's only a pawn in their game

A south politician preaches to the poor white man
You got more than the blacks, don't complain
"You're better than them, you been born with white skin", they explain
And the negro's name
Is used, it is plain
For the politician's gain
As he rises to fame
And the poor white remains
On the caboose of the train
But it ain't him to blame
He's only a pawn in their game

The deputy sheriffs, the soldiers, the governors get paid
And the marshals and cops get the same
But the poor white man's used in the hands of them all like a tool
He's taught in his school
From the start by the rule
That the laws are with him
To protect his white skin
To keep up his hate
So he never thinks straight
About the shape that he's in
But it ain't him to blame
He's only a pawn in their game

From the poverty shacks
He looks through the cracks to the tracks
And the hoof beats pound in his brain
And he's taught how to walk in a pack
Shoot in the back
With his fist in a clinch
To hang and to lynch
To hide 'neath the hood
To kill with no pain
Like a dog on a chain
He ain't got no name
But it ain't him to blame
He's only a pawn in their game

The day Medgar Evers was buried from the bullet he caught
They lowered him down like a king
But when the shadowy sun sets on the one
Who fired the gun
He'll see by his grave
On the stone that remains
Carved next to his name
His epitaph plain
Only a pawn in their game

Copyright: Universal Music Publishing Group
Writer(s): Bob Dylan