The shots of words -a stinger’s edge. The promise sought was lost.
The measure of this decade’s deeds, mount up to this day’s cost.
The shots of drugs – the needles gave a high none else could reach.
The lows ensued and pulled them down and killed a lot of each.
The years went on and war dragged on. This hate – it stripped us bare.
The problem was, the soldiers brave, were treated so unfair.
The demonstrators lined the walk, while fortress blocked the ear,
Of those whose signature could still the distant noise so near.
The rounds of bullets, none deflect; their aim, specific ones
Were killed because they stood. How sad for mothers’ sons.
With J.F.K. It blew our minds, so needless was this thing.
And R.F.K.’s death broke our hearts; a healing yet to bring.
Dr. King, he had a dream, but we woke up to find.
The balcony of hopes split us open wide.
The sixties brought a round of pain. Perplexed were we, still are.
The scars have festered and remained. We thought we came so far.